SUSAN  LENOX: 
HER   FALL  AND   RISE 


DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 
AS  HE  WORKED 


David  Graham  Phillips 


SUSAN  LENOX 

HER  FALL  AND  RISE 


VOLUME    II 


WITH  A  PORTRAIT 
OF  THE  AUTHOR 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1919 


COPYBIGHT,  1917,  BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
COPYBIGHT,  1915,  1916,  BY  THE  INTEKNATIONAL  MAQAMKB  COMPAJTY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


SUSAN  LENOX 


/-M 


SUSAN'S  impulse  was  toward  the  stage.  It  had  be 
come  a  definite  ambition  with  her,  the  stronger 
because  Spenser's  jealousy  and  suspicion  had 
forced  her  to  keep  it  a  secret,  to  pretend  to  herself  that 
she  had  no  thought  but  going  on  indefinitely  as  his 
obedient  and  devoted  mistress.  The  hardiest  and  best 
growths  are  the  growths  inward — where  they  have  sun 
and  air  from  without.  She  had  been  at  the  theater 
several  times  every  week,  and  had  studied  the  perform 
ances  at  a  point  of  view  very  different  from  that  of 
the  audience.  It  was  there  to  be  amused ;  she  was  there 
to  learn.  Spenser  and  such  of  his  friends  as  he  would 
let  meet  her  talked  plays  and  acting  most  of  the  time. 
He  had  forbidden  her  to  have  women  friends.  "Men 
don't  demoralize  women ;  women  demoralize  each  other," 
was  one  of  his  axioms.  But  such  women  as  she  had  a 
bowing  acquaintance  with  were  all  on  the  stage — in 
comic  operas  or  musical  farces.  She  was  much  alone; 
that  meant  many  hours  every  day  which  could  not  but 
be  spent  by  a  mind  like  hers  in  reading  and  in  thinking. 
Only  those  who  have  observed  the  difference  aloneness 
makes  in  mental  development,  where  there  is  a  good 
mind,  can  appreciate  how  rapidly,  how  broadly,  Susan 
expanded.  She  read  plays  more  than  any  other  kind  of 

1 

5047,;; 


.-SUSAN  LENOX 


literature.  She  did  not  read  them  casually  but  was 
always  thinking  how  they  would  act.  She  was  soon 
making  in  imagination  stage  scenes  out  of  dramatic 
chapters  in  novels  as  she  read.  More  and  more  clearly 
the  characters  of  play  and  novel  took  shape  and  sub 
stance  before  the  eyes  of  her  fancy.  But  the  stage  was 
clearly  out  of  the  question. 

While  the  idea  of  a  stage  career  had  been  dominant, 
she  had  thought  in  other  directions,  also.  Every 
Sunday,  indeed  almost  every  day,  she  found  in  the 
newspapers  articles  on  the  subject  of  work  for  women. 
"Why  do  you  waste  time  on  that  stuff?"  said  Drum- 
ley,  when  he  discovered  her  taste  for  it. 

"Oh,  a  woman  never  can  tell  what  may  happen," 
replied  she. 

"She'll  never  learn  anything  from  those  fool  articles," 
answered  he.  "You  ought  to  hear  the  people  who  get 
them  up  laughing  about  them.  I  see  now  why  they 
/  are  printed.  It's  good  for  circulation,  catches  the 
women — even  women  like  you."  However,  she  persisted 
in  reading.  But  never  did  she  find  an  article  that  con 
tained  a  really  practical  suggestion — that  is,  one  ap 
plying  to  the  case  of  a  woman  who  had  to  live  on  what 
she  made  at  the  start,  who  was  without  experience  and 
without  a  family  to  help  her.  All  around  her  had  been 
women  who  were  making  their  way;  but  few  indeed  of 
them — even  of  those  regarded  as  successful — were  get 
ting  along  without  outside  aid  of  some  kind.  So  when 
she  read  or  thought  or  inquired  about  work  for  women, 
she  was  sometimes  amused  and  oftener  made  unhappy 
by  the  truth  as  to  the  conditions,  that  when  a  common 
j  worker  rises  it  is  almost  always  by  the  helping  hand 
of  a  man,  and  rarely  indeed  a  generous  hand — a  painful 
and  shameful  truth  which  a  society  resolved  at  any  cost 


SUSAN   LENOX 


to  think  well  of  itself  fiercely  conceals  from  itself  and 
hypocritically  lies  about. 

She  felt  now  that  there  was  hope  in  only  one  direc 
tion — hope  of  occupation  that  would  enable  her  to  live 
in  physical,  moral  and  mental  decency.  She  must  find 
some  employment  where  she  could  as  decently  as  might 
be  realize  upon  her  physical  assets.  The  stage  would 
be  best — but  the  stage  was  impossible,  at  least  for  the 
time.  Later  on  she  would  try  for  it;  there  was  in  her 
mind  not  a  doubt  of  that,  for  unsuspected  of  any  who 
knew  her  there  lay,  beneath  her  sweet  and  gentle  ex 
terior,  beneath  her  appearance  of  having  been  created 
especially  for  love  and  laughter  and  sympathy,  tenacity 
of  purpose  and  daring  of  ambition  that  were — rarely — 
hinted  at  the  surface  in  her  moments  of  abstraction. 
However,  just  now  the  stage  was  impossible.  Spenser 
would  find  her  immediately.  She  must  go  into  another 
part  of  town,  must  work  at  something  that  touched  his 
life  at  no  point. 

She  had  often  been  told  that  her  figure  would  be  one 
of  her  chief  assets  as  a  player.  And  ready-made  clothes 
fitted  her  with  very  slight  alterations — showing  that  she 
had  a  model  figure.  The  advertisements  she  had  cut 
out  were  for  cloak  models.  Within  an  hour  after  she 
left  Forty-fourth  Street,  she  found  at  Jeffries  and 
Jonas,  in  Broadway  a  few  doors  below  Houston,  a 
vacancy  that  had  not  yet  been  filled — though  as  a  rule 
all  the  help  needed  was  got  from  the  throng  of  appli 
cants  waiting  when  the  store  opened. 

"Come  up  to  my  office,"  said  Jeffries,  who  happened 
to  be  near  the  door  as  she  entered.  "We'll  see  how 
you  shape  up.  We  want  something  extra — something 
dainty  and  catchy." 

He  was  a  short  thick  man,  with  flat  feet,  a  flat  face 

3 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  an  almost  bald  head.  In  his  flat  nostrils,  in  the 
hollows  of  his  great  forward  bent  ears  and  on  the 
lobes  were  bunches  of  coarse,  stiff  gray  hairs.  His 
eyebrows  bristled ;  his  small,  sly^  brown  eyes  twinkled 
with  good  nature  and  with  sensuality.  His  skin  had 
the  pallor  that  suggests  kidney  trouble.  His  words 
issued  from  his  thick  mouth  as  if  he  were  tasting 
each  beforehand — and  liked  the  flavor.  He  led  Susan 
into  his  private  office,  closed  the  door,  took  a  tape 
measure  from  his  desk.  "Now,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
"we'll  size  you  up — eh?  You're  exactly  the  build 
I  like."  He  then  proceeded  to  take  her  measure 
ments  and  finally  turning  to  her  said: 

"You  can  have  the  place." 

"What  does  it  pay?"  she  asked. 

"Ten  dollars,  to  start  with.  Splendid  wages.  / 
started  on  two  fifty.  But  I  forgot — you  don't  know 
the  business?" 

"No — nothing  about  it,"  was  her  innocent  answer. 

"Ah— well,  then— nine  dollars— eh?" 

Susan  hesitated. 

"Well— ten  dollars,  then." 

Susan  accepted.  It  was  more  than  she  had  ex 
pected  to  get;  it  was  less  than  she  could  hope  to 
live  on  in  New  York  in  anything  approaching  the 
manner  a  person  of  any  refinement  or  tastes  or  cus 
toms  of  comfort  regards  as  merely  decent.  She 
must  descend  again  to  the  tenements,  must  resume  the 
fight  against  that  physical  degradation  which  sooner 
or  later  imposes — upon  those  descending  to  it — a  deg 
radation  of  mind  and  heart  deeper,  more  saturating, 
more  putrefying  than  any  that  ever  originated  from 
within.  Not  so  long  as  her  figure  lasted  was  she 
the  worse  off  for  not  knowing  a  trade.  Jeffries  was 


SUSAN  LENOX 


telling  the  truth;  she  would  be  getting  splendid 
wages,  not  merely  for  a  beginner  but  for  any  woman 
of  the  working  class.  Except  in  rare  occasional  in 
stances,  wages  and  salaries  for  women  were  kept 
down  below  the  standard  of  decency  by  woman's  pe 
culiar  position — by  such  conditions  as  that  most 
women  took  up  work  as  a  temporary  makeshift  or  to 
piece  out  a  family's  earnings,  and  that  almost  any 
woman  could  supplement — and  so  many  did  supplement 
— their  earnings  at  labor  with  as  large  or  larger  earn 
ings  in  the  stealthy  shameful  way.  Where  was  there  a 
trade  that  would  bring  a  girl  ten  dollars  a  week  at  the 
start?  Even  if  she  were  a  semi-professional,  a  stenog 
rapher  and  typewriter,  it  would  take  expertness  and 
long  service  to  lift  her  up  to  such  wages.  Thanks  to 
her  figure — to  its  chancing  to  please  old  Jeffries'  taste 
— she  was  better  off  than  all  but  a  few  working  women, 
than  all  but  a  few  workingmen.  She  was  of  the  labor 
aristocracy;  and  if  she  had  been  one  of  a  family  of 
workers  she  would  have  been  counted  an  enviable  favor 
ite  of  fortune.  Unfortunately,  she  was  alone — unfor 
tunately  for  herself,  not  at  all  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  tenement  class  she  was  now  joining.  Among  them 
she  would  be  a  person  who  could  afford  the  luxuries  of 
life  as  life  revealed  itself  to  the  tenements. 

"Tomorrow  morning  at  seven  o'clock,"  said  Jeffries. 

"You  are  a  married  woman?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  lost  your  husband?" 

"Yes." 

"I  saw  you'd  had  great  grief.  No  insurance,  I 
judge?  Well — you  will  find  another — maybe  a  rich 
one."  And  he  patted  her  on  the  shoulder. 

She  was  able  to  muster  a  grateful  smile ;  for  she  felt 


SUSAN  LENOX 


a  rare  kindness  of  heart  under  the  familiar  animalism 
to  which  good-looking,  well-formed  women  who  go 
about  much  unescorted  soon  grow  accustomed.  Also, 
experience  had  taught  her  that,  as  things  go  with  girls 
of  the  working  class,  his  treatment  was  courteous,  con 
siderate,  chivalrous  almost.  With  men  in  absolute  con 
trol  of  all  kinds  of  work,  with  women  stimulating  the 
sex  appetite  by  openly  or  covertly  using  their  charms 
as  female  to  assist  them  in  the  cruel  struggle  for  ex 
istence — what  was  to  be  expected? 

Her  way  to  the  elevator  took  her  along  aisles  lined 
with  tables,  hidden  under  masses  of  cloaks,  jackets, 
dresses  and  materials  for  making  them.  They  exuded 
the  odors  of  the  factory — faint  yet  pungent  odors  that 
brought  up  before  her  visions  of  huge,  badly  ventilated 
rooms,  where  women  aged  or  aging  swiftly  were  toiling 
hour  after  hour  monotonously — spending  half  of  each 
day  in  buying  the  right  to  eat  and  sleep  unhealthily. 
The  odors — or,  rather,  the  visions  they  evoked — made 
her  sick  at  heart.  For  the  moment  she  came  from 
under  the  spell  of  her  peculiar  trait — her  power  to  do 
without  whimper  or  vain  gesture  of  revolt  the  inevitable 
thing,  whatever  it  was.  She  paused  to  steady  herself, 
half  leaning  against  a  lofty  uppiling  of  winter  cloaks. 
A  girl,  young  at  first  glance,  not  nearly  so  young  there 
after,  suddenly  appeared  before  her — a  girl  whose  hair 
had  the  sheen  of  burnished  brass  and  whose  soft  smooth 
skin  was  of  that  frog-belly  whiteness  which  suggests  an 
inheritance  of  some  bleaching  and  blistering  disease. 
She  had  small  regular  features,  eyes  that  at  once  sug 
gested  looseness,  good-natured  yet  mercenary  too.  She 
was  dressed  in  the  sleek,  tight-fitting  trying-on  robe  of 
the  professional  model,  and  her  figure  was  superb  in  its 
firm  luxuriousness. 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


"Sick?"  asked  the  girl  with  real  kindliness. 

"No — only  dizzy  for  the  moment." 

"I  suppose  you've  had  a  hard  day." 

"It  might  have  been  easier,"  Susan  replied,  attempt 
ing  a  smile. 

"It's  no  fun,  looking  for  a  job.  But  you've  caught 
on?" 

"Yes.     He  took  me." 

"I  made  a  bet  with  myself  that  he  would  when  I  saw 
you  go  in."  The  girl  laughed  agreeably.  "He  picked 
you  for  Gideon." 

"What  department  is  that?" 

The  girl  laughed  again,  with  a  cynical  squinting  of 
the  eyes.  "Oh,  Gideon's  our  biggest  customer.  He 
buys  for  the  largest  house  in  Chicago." 

"I'm  looking  for  a  place  to  live,"  said  Susan.  "Some 
place  in  this  part  of  town." 

"Plow  much  do  you  want  to  spend?" 

"I'm  to  have  ten  a  week.  So  I  can't  afford  more 
than  twelve  or  fourteen  a  month  for  rent,  can  I  ?" 

"If  you  happen  to  have  to  live  on  the  ten,"  was  the 
reply  with  a  sly,  merry  smile. 

"It's  all  I've  got." 

Again  the  girl  laughed,  the  good-humored  mercenary  v 
eyes  twinkling  rakishly.     "Well — you  can't  get  much 
for  fourteen  a  month." 

"I  don't  care,  so  long  as  it's  clean." 

"Gee,  you're  reasonable,  ain't  you?"  cried  the  girL 
"Clean !  I  pay  fourteen  a  week,  and  all  kinds  of  things 
come  through  the  cracks  from  the  other  apartments. 
You  must  be  a  stranger  to  little  old  New  York — bug- 
town,  a  lady  friend  of  mine  calls  it.  Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Um "      The    girl    shook    her    head    dubiously. 

7 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Rents  are  mighty  steep  in  New  York,  and  going  up 
all  the  time.  You  see,  the  rich  people  that  own  the 
lands  and  houses  here  need  a  lot  of  money  in  their 
business.  You've  got  either  to  take  a  room  or  part  of 
one  in  with  some  tenement  family,  respectable  but  noisy 
and  dirty  and  not  at  all  refined,  or  else  you've  got  to 
live  in  a  house  where  everthing  goes.  You  want  to  live 
respectable,  I  judge?" 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  you  were  refined  the  minute  I  looked  at  you. 

I  think  you  might  get  a  room  in  the  house  of  a  lady 

friend  of  mine — Mrs.  Tucker,  up  in  Clinton  Place  near 

University  Place — an   elegant    neighborhood — that    is, 

the  north  side  of  the  street.      The  south  side's  kind 

o'  low,  on  account  of  dagoes  having  moved  in  there. 

/They  live  like  vermin — but  then  all  tenement  people 

^    do." 

"They've  got  to,"  said  Susan. 

"Yes,  that's  a  fact.  Ain't  it  awful?  I'll  write 
down  the  name  and  address  of  my  lady  friend.  I'm 
Miss  Mary  Hinkle." 

"My  name  is  Lorna  Sackville,"  said  Susan,  in  re 
sponse  to  the  expectant  look  of  Miss  Hinkle. 

"My,  what  a  swell  name !  You've  been  sick,  haven't 
you?" 

"No,  I'm  never  sick." 

"Me  too.  My  mother  taught  me  to  stop  eating  as 
soon  as  I  felt  bad,  and  not  to  eat  again  till  I  was  all 
right." 

"I  do  that,  too,"  said  Susan.  "Is  it  good  for  the 
health?" 

"It  starves  the  doctors.  You've  never  worked  be 
fore?" 

"Oh,  yes — I've  worked  in  a  factory." 

8 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Miss  Hinlde  looked  disappointed.  Then  she  gave 
Susan  a  side  glance  of  incredulity.  "I'd  never  'a* 
thought  it.  But  I  can  see  you  weren't  brought  up  to 
that.  I'll  write  the  address."  And  she  went  back 
through  the  showroom,  presently  to  reappear  with  a 
card  which  she  gave  Susan.  "You'll  find  Mrs.  Tucker 
a  perfect  lady — too  much  a  lady  to  get  on.  I  tell  her 
she'll  go  to  ruin — and  she  will." 

Susan  thanked  Miss  Hinkle  and  departed.  A  few 
minutes'  walk  brought  her  to  the  old,  high-stooped, 
brown-stone  where  Mrs.  Tucker  lived.  The  dents, 
scratches  and  old  paint  scales  on  the  door,  the  dust- 
streaked  windows,  the  slovenly  hang  of  the  imitation 
lace  window  curtains  proclaimed  the  cheap  middle-class 
lodging  or  boarding  house  of  the  humblest  grade.  Re 
spectable  undoubtedly;  for  the  fitfully  prosperous  of 
fenders  against  laws  and  morals  insist  upon  better  ac 
commodations.  Susan's  heart  sank.  She  saw  that  once 
more  she  was  clinging  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
And  what  hope  was  there  that  she  would  get  back  to 
firm  ground?  Certainly  not  by  "honest  labor."  Back 
to  the  tenement !  "Yes,  I'm  on  the  way  back,"  she  said 
to  herself.  However,  she  pulled  the  loose  bell-knob  and 
was  admitted  to  a  dingy,  dusty  hallway  by  a  maid  so 
redolent  of  stale  perspiration  that  it  was  noticeable 
even  in  the  hall's  strong  saturation  of  smells  of  cheap 
cookery.  The  parlor  furniture  was  rapidly  going  to 
pieces ;  the  chromos  and  prints  hung  crazily  awry ; 
dust  lay  thick  upon  the  center  table,  upon  the  chimney- 
piece,  upon  the  picture  frames,  upon  the  carving  in 
the  rickety  old  chairs.  Only  by  standing  did  Susan 
avoid  service  as  a  dust  rag.  It  was  typical  of  the 
profound  discouragement  that  blights  or  bjasts  all  but 
a  small  area  of  our  modern  civilization — a  discourage- 

9 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ment  due  in  part  to  ignorance — but  not  at  all  to  the 
cause  usually  assigned — to  "natural  shiftlessness."  It 
is  chiefly  due  to  an  unconscious  instinctive  feeling  of 
the  hopelessness  of  the  average  lot. 

While  Susan  explained  to  Mrs.  Tucker  how  she  had 
come  and  what  she  could  afford,  she  examined  her  with 
results  far  from  disagreeable.  One  glance  into  that 
homely  wrinkled  face  was  enough  to  convince  anyone  of 
her  goodness  of  heart — and  to  Susan  in  those  days  of 
aloneness,  of  uncertainty,  of  the  feeling  of  hopelessness, 
goodness  of  heart  seemed  the  supreme  charm.  Such  a 
woman  as  a  landlady,  and  a  landlady  in  New  York, 
was  pathetically  absurd.  Even  to  still  rather  simple- 
minded  Susan  she  seemed  an  invitation  to  the  swindler, 
to  the  sponger  with  the  hard-luck  story,  to  the  sinking 
who  clutch  about  desperately  and  drag  down  with  them 
everyone  who  permits  them  to  get  a  hold. 

"I've  only  got  one  room,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  "That's 
not  any  too  nice.  I  did  rather  calculate  to  get  five  a 
week  for  it,  but  you  are  the  kind  I  like  to  have  in  the 
house.  So  if  you  want  it  I'll  let  it  to  you  for  fourteen 
a  month.  And  I  do  hope  you'll  pay  as  steady  as  you 
can.  There's  so  many  in  such  hard  lines  that  I  have 
a  tough  time  with  my  rent.  I've  got  to  pay  my  rent, 
you  know." 

"I'll  go  as  soon  as  I  can't  pay,"  replied  Susan.  The 
landlady's  apologetic  tone  made  her  sick  at  heart,  as 
a  sensitive  human  being  must  ever  feel  in  the  presence 
of  a  fellow-being  doomed  to  disaster. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker  gratefully.  "I  do 
wish —  -"  She  checked  herself.  "No,  I  don't  mean 
that.  They  do  the  best  they  can — and  I'll  botch  along 
somehow.  I  look  at  the  bright  side  of  things." 

The  incurable  optimism  of  the  smile  accompanying 

10 


SUSAN   LENOX 


these  words  moved  Susan,  abnormally  bruised  and  ten 
der  of  heart  that  morning,  almost  to  tears.     A  woman 
with  her  own  way  to  make,  and  always  looking  at  the" 
bright  side! 

"How  long  have  you  had  this  house?" 

"Only  five  months.  My  husband  died  a  year  ago. 
I  had  to  give  up  our  little  business  six  months  after 
his  death.  Such  a  nice  little  stationery  store,  but  I 
couldn't  seem  to  refuse  credit  or  to  collect  bills.  Then 
I  came  here.  This  looks  like  losing,  too.  But  I'm  sure 
I'll  come  out  all  right.  The  Lord  will  provide,  as  the 
Good  Book  says.  I  don't  have  no  trouble  keeping  the 
house  full.  Only  they  don't  seem  to  pay.  You  want 
to  see  your  room?" 

She  and  Susan  ascended  three  flights  to  the  top 
story — to  a  closet  of  a  room  at  the  back.  The  walls 
were  newly  and  brightly  papered.  The  sloping  roof  of 
the  house  made  one  wall  a  ceiling  also,  and  in  this  two 
small  windows  were  set.  The  furniture  was  a  tiny  bed, 
white  and  clean  as  to  its  linen,  a  table,  two  chairs,  a 
small  washstand  with  a  little  bowl  and  a  less  pitcher, 
a  soap  dish  and  a  mug.  Along  one  wall  ran  a  row  of 
hooks.  On  the  floor  was  an  old  and  incredibly  dirty 
carpet,  mitigated  by  a  strip  of  clean  matting  which 
ran  from  the  door,  between  washstand  and  bed,  to  one 
of  the  windows. 

Susan  glanced  round — a  glance  was  enough  to  enable 
her  to  see  all — all  that  was  there,  all  that  the  things 
there  implied.  Back  to  the  tenement  life!  She  shud 
dered. 

"It  ain't  much,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  "But  usually 
rooms  like  these  rents  for  five  a  week." 

The  sun  had  heated  the  roof  scorching  hot ;  the  air 
of  this  room,  immediately  underneath,  was  like  that  of 

11 


SUSAN 


a  cellar  where  a  furnace  is  in  ;'u]]  blast.  But  Susan 
knew  she  was  indeed  in  luck.  "It  s  clean  and  nice  here," 
said  she  to  Mrs.  Tucker,  "and  I'm  nuch  obliged  to  you 
for  being  so  reasonable  with  me."  And  to  clinch  the  bar 
gain  she  then  and  there  paid  half  a  monjth's  rent.  "I'll 
give  you  the  rest  when  my  week  at  the  store's  up." 

"No  hurry,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker  who  was  handling 
the  money  and  looking  at  it  with  glistening  grateful 
eyes.  "Us  poor  folks  oughtn't  to  be  hard  on  each  other 
— though,  Lord  knows,  if  we  was,  I  reckon  we'd  not  be 
quite  so  poor.  It's  them  that  has  the  streak  of  hard 
in  'em  what  gets  on.  But  the  Bible  teaches  us  that's 
what  to  expect  in  a  world  of  sin.  I  suppose  you  want 
to  go  now  and  have  your  trunk  sent?" 

"This  is  all  I've  got,"  said  Susan,  indicating  her 
bag  on  the  table. 

Into  Mrs.  Tucker's  face  came  a  look  of  terror  that 
made  Susan  realize  in  an  instant  how  hard-pressed  she 
must  be.  It  was  the  kind  of  look  that  comes  into  the 
eyes  of  the  deer  brought  down  by  the  dogs  when  it  sees 
the  hunter  coming  up. 

"But  I've  a  good  place,"  Susan  hastened  to  say.  "I 
get  ten  a  week.  And  as  I  told  you  before,  when  I  can't 
pay  I'll  go  right  away." 

"I've  lost  so  much  in  bad  debts,"  explained  the  land 
lady  humbly.  "I  don't  seem  to  see  which  way  to  turn." 
Then  she  brightened.  "It'll  all  come  out  for  the  best. 
I  work  hard  and  I  try  to  do  right  by  everybody." 

"I'm  sure  it  will,"  said  Susan  believingly. 

Often  her  confidence  in  the  moral  ideals  trained  into 
her  from  childhood  had  been  sorely  tried.  But  never 
had  she  permitted  herself  more  than  a  hasty,  ashamed 
doubt  that  the  only  way  to  get  on  was  to  work  and 
to  practice  the  Golden  Rule.  Everyone  who  was  pros- 


SUSAN   LENOX 


perous  attributed  hi^lprosperity  to  the  steadfast  fol 
lowing  of  that  way f  #8  for  those  who  were  not  prosper 
ous,  they  were  eitKer  lazy  or  bad-hearted,  or  would 
ihave  been  even  worse  off  had  they  been  less  faithful 
to  the  creed  that  was  best  policy  as  well  as  best  for 
peace  of  mind  and  heart. 

In  trying1  to  be  as  inexpensive  to  Spenser  as  she 
could  contrive,  and  also  because  of  her  passion  for  im 
proving  herself,  Susan  had  explored  far  into  the  almost 
unknown  art  of  living,  on  its  shamefully  neglected  ma 
terial  side.  She  had  cultivated  the  habit  of  spending  «/ 
much  time  about  her  purchases  of  every  kind — had 
spent  time  intelligently  in  saving  money  intelligently. 
She  had  gone  from  shop  to  shop,  comparing  values  and 
prices.  She  had  studied  quality  in  food  and  in  cloth 
ing;  and  thus  she  had  discovered  what  enormous  sums 
are  wasted  through  ignorance — wasted  by  poor  even 
more  lavishly  than  by  rich  or  well-to-do,  because  the 
shops  where  the  poor  dealt  had  absolutely  no  check  on 
their  rapacity  through  the  occasional  canny  customer. 
She  had  learned  the  fundamental  truth  of  the  material 
art  of  living;  only  when  a  good  thing  happens  to  be 
cheap  is  a  cheap  thing  good.  Spenser,  cross-examin 
ing  her  as  to  how  she  passed  the  days,  found  out  about 
this  education  she  was  acquiring.  It  amused  him. 
"A  waste  of  time!"  he  used  to  say.  "Pay  what  they 
ask,  and  don't  bother  your  head  with  such  petty  mat 
ters."  He  might  have  suspected  and  accused  her  of 
being  stingy  had  not  her  generosity  been  about  the 
most  obvious  and  incessant  trait  of  her  character. 

She  was  now  reduced  to  an  income  below  what  life 
can  be  decently  maintained  upon — the  life  of  a  city- 
dweller  with  normal  tastes  for  cleanliness  and  health- 
fulness*  She  proceeded  without  delay  to  put  her  in- 

13 


SUSAN  LENOX 


valuable  education  into  use.  She  must  fill  her  mind 
with  the  present  and  with  the  future.  She  must  not 
glance  back.  She  must  ignore  her  wounds — their  aches, 
their  clamorous  throbs.  She  took  off  her  clothes,  as 
soon  as  Mrs.  Tucker  left  her  alone,  brushed  them  and 
hung  them  up,  put  on  the  thin  wrapper  she  had  brought 
in  her  bag.  The  fierce  heat  of  the  little  packing-case 
of  a  room  became  less  unendurable;  also,  she  was  sav 
ing  the  clothes  from  useless  wear.  She  sat  down  at 
the  table  and  with  pencil  and  paper  planned  her  budget. 

Of  the  ten  dollars  a  week,  three  dollars  and  thirty 
cents  must  be  subtracted  for  rent — for  shelter.  This 
left  six  dollars  and  seventy  cents  for  the  other  two 
necessaries,  food  and  clothing — there  must  be  no  inci 
dental  expenses  since  there  was  no  money  to  meet  them. 
She  could  not  afford  to  provide  for  carfare  on  stormy 
days;  a  rain  coat,  overshoes  and  umbrella,  more  ex 
pensive  at  the  outset,  were  incomparably  cheaper  in  the 
long  run.  Her  washing  and  ironing  she  would  of  course 
do  for  herself  in 'the  evenings  and  on  Sundays.  Of  the 
two  items  which  the  six  dollars  and  seventy  cents  must 
cover,  food  came  first  in  importance.  How  little 
could  she  live  on? 

That  stifling  hot  room !  She  was  as  wet  as  if  she  had 
come  undried  from  a  bath.  She  had  thought  she  could 
never  feel  anything  but  love  for  the  sun  of  her  City 
of  the  Sun.  But  this  undreamed-of  heat — like  the  cruel 
caresses  of  a  too  impetuous  lover — 

How  little  could  she  live  on?" 

Dividing  her  total  of  six  dollars  and  seventy  cents  by 
seven,  she  found  that  she  had  ninety-five  cents  a  day. 
She  would  soon  have  to  buy  clothes,  however  scrupulous 
care  she  might  take  of  those  she  possessed.  It  was 
modest  indeed  to  estimate  fifteen  dollars  for  clothes 

14 


SUSAN   LENOX 


before  October.  That  meant  she  must  save  fifteen  dol 
lars  in  the  remaining  three  weeks  of  June,  in  July, 
August  and  September — in  one  hundred  and  ten  days. 
She  must  save  about  fifteen  cents  a  day.  And  out  of 
that  she  must  buy  soap  and  tooth  powder,  outer  and 
under  clothes,  perhaps  a  hat  and  a  pair  of  shoes.  Thus 
she  could  spend  for  food  not  more  than  eighty  cents  a 
day,  as  much  less  as  was  consistent  with  buying  the 
best  quality — for  she  had  learned  by  bitter  experience 
the  ravages  poor  quality  food  makes  in  health  and 
looks,  had  learned  why  girls  of  the  working  class  go  to 
pieces  swiftly  after  eighteen.  She  must  fight  to  keep  / 
health— sick  she  did  not  dare  be.  She  must  fight  to 
keep  looks — her  figure  was  her  income. 

Eighty  cents  a  day.  The  outlook  was  not  so  gloomy. 
A  cup  of  cocoa  in  the  morning — made  at  home  of  the 
best  cocoa,  the  kind  that  did  not  overheat  the  blood 
and  disorder  the  skin — it  would  cost  her  less  than  ten 
cents.  She  would  carry  lunch  with  her  to  the  store.  In 
the  evening  she  would  cook  a  chop  or  something  of 
that  kind  on  the  gas  stove  she  would  buy.  Some  days 
she  would  be  able  to  save  twenty  or  even  twenty-five 
cents  toward  clothing  and  the  like.  Whatever  else  hap 
pened,  she  was  resolved  never  again  to  sink  to  dirt  and-7 
rags.  Never  again ! — never !  She  had  passed  through 
that  experience  once  without  loss  of  self-respect  only 
because  it  was  by  way  of  education.  To  go  through  it 
again  would  be  yielding  ground  in  the  fight — the  fight 
for  a  destiny  worth  while  which  some  latent  but  mighty 
instinct  within  her  never  permitted  her  to  forget. 

She  sat  at  the  table,  with  the  shutters  closed  against 
the  fiery  light  of  the  summer  afternoon  sun.  That 
hideous  unacceptable  heat!  With  eyelids  drooped — 
deep  and  dark  were  the  circles  round  them — she  listened 

15 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  the  roar  of  the  city,  a  savage  sound  like  the  clamor 
of  a  multitude  of  famished  wild  beasts.  A  city  like  the 
City  of  Destruction  in  "Pilgrim's  Progress" — a  city 
where  of  all  the  millions,  but  a  few  thousands  were  mov 
ing  toward  or  keeping  in  the  sunlight  of  civilization. 
The  rest,  the  swarms  of  the  cheap  boarding  houses, 
cheap  lodging  houses,  tenements — these  myriads  were 
squirming  in  darkness  and  squalor,  ignorant  and  never 
to  be  less  ignorant,  ill  fed  and  never  to  be  better  fed, 
clothed  in  pitiful  absurd  rags  or  shoddy  vulgar  at 
tempts  at  finery,  and  never  to  be  better  clothed.  She 
would  not  be  of  those!  She  would  struggle  on,  would 
sink  only  to  mount.  She  would  work ;  she  would  try  to 
do  as  nearly  right  as  she  could.  And  in  the  end  she 
must  triumph.  She  would  get  at  least  a  good  part  of 
what  her  soul  craved,  of  what  her  mind  craved,  of 
what  her  heart  craved. 

The  heat  of  this  tenement  room !  The  heat  to  which 
poverty  was  exposed  naked  and  bound !  Would  not 
anyone  be  justified  in  doing  anything — yes,  a/nyihmg — 
to  escape  from  this  fiend? 


II 

ELLEN,  the  maid,  slept  across  the  hall  from 
Susan,  in  a  closet  so  dirty  that  no  one  could 
have  risked  in  it  any  article  of  clothing  with 
the  least  pretension  to  cleanness.  It  was  no  better,  no 
worse  than  the  lodgings  of  more  than  two  hundred 
thousand  New  Yorkers.  Its  one  narrow  opening,  beside 
the  door,  gave  upon  a  shaft  whose  odors  were  so  foul 
that  she  kept  the  window  closed,  preferring  heat  like 
the  inside  of  a  steaming  pan  to  the  only  available  "out 
side  air."  This  in  a  civilized  city  where  hundreds  of 
dogs  with  jeweled  collars  slept  in  luxurious  rooms  on 
downiest  beds  and  had  servants  to  wait  upon  them! 
The  morning  after  Susan's  coming,  Ellen  woke  her,  as 
they  had  arranged,  at  a  quarter  before  five.  The  night 
before,  Susan  had  brought  up  from  the  basement  a 
large  bucket  of  water;  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  take  a  bath  every  day,  at  least  until  the  cold  weather 
set  in  and  rendered  such  a  luxury  impossible.  With 
this  water  and  what  she  had  in  her  little  pitcher,  Susan 
contrived  to  freshen  herself  up.  She  had  bought  a  gas 
stove  and  some  indispensable  utensils  for  three  dollars 
and  seventeen  cents  in  a  Fourteenth  Street  store,  a 
pound  of  cocoa  for  seventy  cents  and  ten  cents'  worth 
of  rolls — three  rolls,  well  baked,  of  first  quality  flour 
and  with  about  as  good  butter  and  other  things  put 
into  the  dough  as  one  can  expect  in  bread  not  made  at 
home.  These  purchases  had  reduced  her  cash  to  forty- 
three  cents — and  she  ought  to  buy  without  delay  a 

17 


SUSAN  LENOX 


clock  with  an  alarm  attachment.  And  pay  day — Satur 
day — was  two  days  away. 

She  made  a  cup  of  cocoa,  drank  it  slowly,  eating  one 
of  the  rolls — all  in  the  same  methodical  way  like  a 
machine  that  continues  to  revolve  after  the  power  has 
been  shut  off.  It  was  then,  even  more  than  during 
her  first  evening  alone,  even  more  than  when  she  from 
time  to  time  startled  out  of  troubled  sleep — it  was  then, 
as  she  forced  down  her  lonely  breakfast,  that  she  most 
missed  Rod.  When  she  had  finished,  she  completed  her 
toilet.  The  final  glance  at  herself  in  the  little  mirror 
was  depressing.  She  looked  fresh  for  her  new  surround 
ings  and  for  her  new  class.  But  in  comparison  with 
what  she  usually  looked,  already  there  was  a  distinct, 
an  ominous  falling  off.  "I'm  glad  Rod  never  saw  me 
looking  like  this,"  she  said  aloud  drearily.  Taking  a 
roll  for  lunch,  she  issued  forth  at  half-past  six.  The 
hour  and  three-quarters  she  had  allowed  for  dressing 
and  breakfasting  had  been  none  too  much.  In  the  cool 
ness  and  comparative  quiet  she  went  down  University 
Place  and  across  Washington  Square  under  the  old 
trees,  all  alive  with  song  and  breeze  and  flashes  of  early 
morning  light.  She  was  soon  in  Broadway's  deep  can 
yon,  was  drifting  absently  along  in  the  stream  of  cross, 
mussy-looking  workers  pushing  southward.  Her  heart 
ached,  her  brain  throbbed.  It  was  horrible,  this  loneli 
ness  ;  and  every  one  of  the  wo^unds  where  she  had  severed 
the  ties  with  Spenser  was  bleeding.  She  was  astonished 
to  find  herself  before  the  building  whose  upper  floors 
were  occupied  by  Jeffries  and  Jonas.  How  had  she 
got  there?  Where  had  she  crossed  Broadway? 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Sackville."  It  was  Miss  Hinkle, 
just  arriving.  Her  eyes  were  heavy,  and  there  were  the 
crisscross  lines  under  them  that  tell  a  story  to  the 

18 


SUSAN  LENOX 


expert  in  the  different  effects  of  different  kinds  of  dis-    + 
sipation.     Miss  Hinkle  was  showing  her  age — and  she 
was  "no  spring  .chicken." 

Susan  returned  her  greeting,  gazing  at  her  with  the 
dazed  eyes  and  puzzled  smile  of  an  awakening  sleeper. 

"I'll  show  you  the  ropes,"  said  Miss  Hinkle,  as  they 
climbed  the  two  nights  of  stairs.  "You'll  find  the  job 
dead  easy.  They're  mighty  nice  people  to  work  for, 
Mr.  Jeffries  especially.  Not  easy  fruit,  of  course,  but 
nice  for  people  that  have  got  on.  You  didn't  sleep  well?" 

"Yes— I  think  so." 

"I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  drop  round  last  night. 
I  was  out  with  one  of  the  buyers.  How  do  you  like 
Mrs.  Tucker?" 

"She's  very  good,  isn't  she?" 

"She'll  never  get  along.  She  works  hard,  too — but  > 
not  for  herself.  In  this  world  you  have  to  look  out  v 
for  Number  One." 

They  were  a  few  minutes  early;  so  Miss  Hinkle  con 
tinued  the  conversation  while  they  waited  for  the  open 
ing  of  the  room  where  Susan  would  be  outfitted  for 
her  work.  "I  called  you  Miss  Sackville,"  said  she, 
"but  you've  been  married — haven't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  can  always  tell — or  at  least  I  can  see  whether  a 
woman's  had  experience  or  not.  Well,  I've  never  been 
regularly  married,  and  I  doi^t  expect  to,  unless  some 
thing  pretty  good  offers.  Think  I'd  marry  one  of 
these  rotten  little  clerks?"  Miss  Hinkle  answered  her 
own  question  with  a  scornful  sniff.  "They  can  hardly 
make  a  living  for  themselves.  And  a  man  who 
amounts  to  anything,  he  wants  a  refined  lady  to  help 
him  on  up,  not  a  working  girl.  Of  course,  there's 
exceptions.  But  as  a  rule  a  girl  in  our  position  either 

19 


SUSAN  LENOX 


has  to  stay  single  or  marry  beneath  her — marry  some 
mechanic  or  such  like.  Well,  I  ain't  so  lazy,  or  so 
crazy  about  being  supported,  that  I'd  sink  to  be 
cook  and  slop-carrier — and  worse — for  a  carpenter  or 
a  bricklayer.  Going  out  with  the  buyers — the  gen 
tlemanly  ones — has  spoiled  my  taste.  I  can't  stand 
a  coarse  man — coarse  dress  and  hands  and  manners. 
Can  you?" 

Susan  turned  hastily  away,  so  that  her  face  was 
hidden  from  Miss  Hinkle. 

"I'll  bet  you  wasn't  married  to  a  coarse  man." 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  myself,"  said  Susan  with 
an  effort.  "It's  not  pleasant." 

Her  manner  of  checking  Miss  Hinkle*s  friendly  cu 
riosity  did  not  give  offense;  it  excited  the  experienced 
working  woman's  sympathy.  She  went  on: 

"Well,  I  feel  sorry  for  any  woman  that  has  to 
work.  Of  course  most  women  do — and  at  worse  than 
anything  in  the  stores  and  factories.  As  between  be 
ing  a  drudge  to  some  dirty  common  laborer  like  most 
women  are,  and  working  in  a  factory  even,  give  me  the 
factory.  Yes,  give  me  a  job  as  a  pot  slinger  even,  low- 
as  that  is.  Oh,  I  hate  working  people!  I  love  refine 
ment.  Up  to  Murray's  last  night  I  sat  there,  eating 
my  lobster  and  drinking  my  wine,  and  I  pretended  I 
was  a  lady — and,  my,  how  happy  I  was !" 

The  stockroom  now  opened.  Susan,  with  the  help 
of  Miss  Hinkle  and  the  stock  keeper,  dressed  in  one  of 
the  tight-fitting  satin  slips  that  revealed  every  curve 
and  line  of  her  form,  made  every  motion  however 
slight,  every  breath  she  drew,  a  gesture  of  sensuous- 
ness.  As  she  looked  at  herself  in  a  long  glass  in  one 
of  the  show-parlors,  her  face  did  not  reflect  the  admi 
ration  frankly  displayed  upon  the  faces  of  the  two 

20 


SUSAN  LENOX 

other  women.     That  satin  slip  seemed  to  have  a  moral  v 
quality,    an    immoral    character.       It    made    her    feel 
naked — no,  as  if  she  were  naked  and  being  peeped  at 
through  a  crack  or  keyhole. 

"You'll  soon  get  used  to  it,"  Miss  Hinkle  assured 
her.  "And  you'll  learn  to  show  off  the  dresses  and 
cloaks  to  the  best  advantage."  She  laughed  her  in 
sinuating  little  laugh  again,  amused,  cynical,  reckless. 
"You  know,  the  buyers  are  men.  Gee,  what  awful  jay 
things  we  work  off  on  them,  sometimes!  They  can't 
see  the  dress  for  the  figure.  And  you've  got  such  a 
refined  figure,  Miss  Sackville — the  kind  I'd  be  crazy 
about  if  I  was  a  man.  But  I  must  say — "  here  she 
eyed  herself  in  the  glass  complacently — "most  men  pre 
fer  a  figure  like  mine.  Don't  they,  Miss  Simmons?" 

The  stock  keeper  shook  her  fat  shoulders  in  a  ges 
ture  of  indifferent  disdain.  "They  take  whatever's 
handiest — that's  my  experience." 

About  half-past  nine  the  first  customer  appeared — 
Mr.  Gideon,  it  happened  to  be.  He  was  making  the 
rounds  of  the  big  wholesale  houses  in  search  of  stock 
for  the  huge  Chicago  department  store  that  paid  him 
fifteen  thousand  a  year  and  expenses.  He  had  been 
contemptuous  of  the  offerings  of  Jeffries  and  Jonas 
for  the  winter  season,  had  praised  with  enthusiasm  the 
models  of  their  principal  rival,  Icklemeier,  Schwartz 
and  Company.  They  were  undecided  whether  he  was 
really  thinking  of  deserting  them  or  was  feeling  for 
lower  prices.  Mr.  Jeffries  bustled  into  the  room  where 
Susan  stood  waiting;  his  flat  face  quivered  with  excite 
ment.  "Gid's  come !"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Ev 
erybody  get  busy.  We'll  try  Miss  Sackville  on  him." 

And  he  himself  assisted  while  they  tricked  out  Susan 
in  an  afternoon  costume  of  pale  gray,  putting  on  her 


SUSAN  LENOX 


head  a  big  pale  gray  hat  with  harmonizing  feathers. 
The  model  was  offered  in  all  colors  and  also  in  a  modi 
fied  form  that  permitted  its  use  for  either  afternoon 
or  evening.  Susan  had  received  her  instructions,  so 
when  she  was  dressed,  she  was  ready  to  sweep  into 
Gideon's  presence  with  languid  majesty.  Jeffries' 
eyes  glistened  as  he  noted  her  walk.  "She  looks  as  if 
she  really  was  a  lady !"  exclaimed  he.  "I  wish  I  could 
make  my  daughters  move  around  on  their  trotters  like 
that." 

Gideon  was  enthroned  in  an  easy  chair,  smoking  a 
cigar.  He  was  a  spare  man  of  perhaps  forty-five, 
with  no  intention  of  abandoning  the  pretensions  to 
youth  for  many  a  year.  In  dress  he  was  as  spick  and 
span  as  a  tailor  at  the  trade's  annual  convention.  But 
he  had  evidently  been  "going  some"  for  several  days; 
the  sour,  worn,  haggard  face  rising  above  his  elegantly 
fitting  collar  suggested  a  moth-eaten  jaguar  that  has 
been  for  weeks  on  short  rations  or  none. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  snapped,  as  the  door  be 
gan  to  open.  "I  don't  like  to  be  kept  waiting." 

In  swept  Susan ;  and  Jeffries,  rubbing  his  thick 
hands,  said  fawningly,  "But  I  think,  Mr.  Gideon, 
you'll  say  it  was  worth  waiting  for." 

Gideon's  angry,  arrogant  eyes  softened  at  first 
glimpse  of  Susan.  "Um!"  he  grunted,  some  such 
sound  as  the  jaguar  aforesaid  would  make  when  the 
first  chunk  of  food  hurtled  through  the  bars  and 
landed  on  his  paws.  He  sat  with  cigar  poised  between 
his  long  white  fingers  while  Susan  walked  up  and  down 
before  him,  displaying  the  dress  at  all  angles,  Jeffries 
expatiating  upon  it  the  while. 

"Don't  talk  so  damn  much,  Jeff !"  he  commanded 
with  the  insolence  of  a  customer  containing  possibili- 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ties  of  large  profit.  "I  judge  for  myself.  I'm  not  a 
damn  fool." 

"I  should  say  not,"  cried  Jeffries,  laughing  the 
merchant's  laugh  for  a  customer's  pleasantry.  "But 
I  can't  help  talking  about  it,  Gid,  it's  so  lovely!" 

Jeffries'  shrewd  eyes  leaped  for  joy  when  Gideon 
got  up  from  his  chair  and,  under  pretense  of  examin 
ing  the  garment,  investigated  Susan's  figure.  "Excuse 
me,"  said  Jeffries.  "I'll  see  that  they  get  the  other 
things  ready."  And  out  he  went,  signaling  at  Mary 
Hinkle  to  follow  him — an  unnecessary  gesture,  as  she 
was  already  on  her  way  to  the  door. 

Gideon  understood  as  well  as  did  they  why  they 
left.  "I  don't  think  I've  seen  you  before,  my  dear," 
said  he  to  Susan. 

"I  came  only  this  morning,"  replied  she. 

"I  like  to  know  everybody  I  deal  with.  We  must 
get  better  acquainted." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan  with  a  grave,  distant  smile. 

"Got  a  date  for  dinner  tonight?"  inquired  he;  and, 
assuming  that  everything  would  yield  precedence  to 
him,  he  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  went  on,  "Tell 
me  your  address.  I'll  send  a  cab  for  you  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan,  "but  I  can't  go." 

Gideon  smiled.  "Oh,  don't  be  shy.  Of  course  you'll 
go.  Ask  Jeffries.  He'll  tell  you  it's  all  right." 

"There  are  reasons  why  I'd  rather  not  be  seen  in 
the  restaurants." 

"That's  even  better.  I'll  come  in  the  cab  myself 
and  we'll  go  to  a  quiet  place." 

His  eyes  smiled  insinuatingly  at  her.  Now  that  she 
looked  at  him  more  carefully  he  was  unusually  attrac 
tive  for  a  man  of  his  type — had  strength  and  intelli- 


SUSAN  LENOX 


gence  in  his  features,  had  a  suggestion  of  mastery,  of 
one  used  to  obedience,  in  his  voice.  His  teeth  were 
even  and  sound,  his  lips  firm  yet  not  too  thin. 

"Come,"  said  he  persuasively.  "I'll  not  eat  you 
up — "  with  a  gay  and  gracious  smile — "at  least  I'll 
try  not  to." 

Susan  remembered  what  Miss  Hinkle  had  told  her. 
She  saw  that  she  must  either  accept  the  invitation  or 
give  up  her  position.  She  said: 

"Very  well,"  and  gave  him  her  address. 

Back  came  Jeffries  and  Miss  Hinkle  carrying  the 
first  of  the  wraps.  Gideon  waved  them  away.  "You've 
shown  'em  to  me  before,"  said  he.  "I  don't  want  to 
see  'em  again.  Give  me  the  evening  gowns." 

Susan  withdrew,  soon  to  appear  in  a  dress  that  left 
her  arms  and  neck  bare.  Jeffries  kept  her  walking  up 
and  down  until  she  was  ready  to  drop  with  weariness 
of  the  monotony.  Gideon  tried  to  draw  her  into  con 
versation,  but  she  would — -indeed  could — go  no  further 
than  direct  answers  to  his  direct  questions.  "Never 
mind,"  said  he  to  her  in  an  undertone.  "I'll  cheer  you 
up  this  evening.  I  think  I  know  how  to  order  a 
dinner." 

Her  instant  conquest  of  the  difficult  and  valuable 
Gideon  so  elated  Jeffries  that  he  piled  the  work  on  her. 
He  used  her  with  every  important  buyer  who  came  that 
day.  The  temperature  was  up  in  the  high  nineties ;  the 
hot  moist  air  stood  stagnant  as  a  barnyard  pool;  the 
winter  models  were  cruelly  hot  and  heavy.  All  day 
long,  with  a  pause  of  half  an  hour  to  eat  her  roll  and 
drink  a  glass  of  water,  Susan  walked  up  and  down  the 
show  parlors  weighted  with  dresses  and  cloaks,  furs 
for  arctic  weather.  The  other  girls,  even  those  doing 


SUSAN   LENOX 


almost  nothing,  were  all  but  prostrated.  It  was  little 
short  of  intolerable,  this  struggle  to  gain  the  "honest, 
self-respecting  living  by  honest  work"  that  there  was 
so  much  talk  about.  Toward  five  o'clock  her  nerves 
abruptly  and  completely  gave  way,  and  she  fainted — 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  At  once  the  whole  estab 
lishment  was  in  an  uproar.  Jeffries  cursed  himself 
loudly  for  his  shortsightedness,  for  his  overestimating 
her  young  strength.  "She'll  look  like  hell  this  evening," 
he  wailed,  wringing  his  hands  like  a  distracted  peasant 
woman.  "Maybe  she  won't  be  able  to  go  out  at  all." 
She  soon  came  round.  They  brought  her  whiskey, 
and  afterward  tea  and  sandwiches.  And  with  the  power 
of  quick  recuperation  that  is  the  most  fascinating 
miracle  of  healthy  youth,  she  not  only  showed  no  sign 
of  her  breakdown  but  looked  much  better.  And  she 
felt  better.  We  shall  some  day  understand  why  it  is 
that  if  a  severe  physical  blow  follows  upon  a  mental 
blow,  recovery  from  the  physical  blow  is  always  accom 
panied  by  a  relief  of  the  mental  strain.  Susan  came 
out  of  her  fit  of  faintness  and  exhaustion  with  a  differ 
ent  point  of  view — as  if  time  had  been  long  at  work  soft 
ening  her  grief ;  Spenser  seemed  part  of  the  present  no 
longer,  but  of  the  past — a  past  far  more  remote  than 
yesterday. 

Mary  Hinkle  sat  with  her  as  she  drank  the  tea.  "Did 
you  make  a  date  with  Gid?"  inquired  she.  Her  tone  let 
Susan  know  that  the  question  had  been  prompted  by 
Jeffries. 

"He  asked  me  to  dine  with  him,  and  I  said  I  would." 
"Have  you  got  a  nice  dress — dinner  dress,  I  mean?" 
"The  linen  one  I'm  wearing  is  all.    My  other  dress  is 
for  cooler  weather." 

"Then  I'll  give  you  one  out  of  stock — I  mean  I'll 

25 


SUSAN  LENOX 


borrow  one  for  you.  This  dinner's  a  house  affair,  you 
know — to  get  Gid's  order.  It'll  be  worth  thousands  to 
them." 

"There  wouldn't  be  anything  to  fit  me  on  such  short 
notice,"  said  Susan,  casting  about  for  an  excuse  for 
not  wearing  borrowed  finery. 

"Why,  you've  got  a  model  figure.  I'll  pick  you  out 
a  white  dress — and  a  black  and  white  hat.  I  know  'em 
all,  and  I  know  one  that'll  make  you  look  simply 
lovely." 

Susan  did  not  protest.  She  was  profoundly  indif 
ferent  to  what  happened  to  her.  Life  seemed  a  show  in 
which  she  had  no  part,  and  at  which  she  sat  a  listless 
spectator.  A  few  minutes,  and  in  puffed  Jeffries,  soli 
citous  as  a  fussy  old  bird  with  a  new  family. 

"You're  a  lot  better,  ain't  you?"  cried  he,  before  he 
had  looked  at  her.  "Oh,  yes,  you'll  be  all  right.  And 
you'll  have  a  lovely  time  with  Mr.  Gideon.  He's  a 
perfect  gentleman — knows  how  to  treat  a  lady.  .  .  . 
The  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  you  I  said  to  myself,  said  I, 
'Jeffries,  she's  a  mascot.'  And  you  are,  my  dear. 
You'll  get  us  the  order.  But  you  mustn't  talk  business 
with  him,  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Susan,  wearily. 

"He's  a  gentleman,  you  know,  and  it  don't  do  to  mix 
business  and  social  pleasures.  You  string  him  along 
quiet  and  ladylike  and  elegant,  as  if  there  wasn't  any 
such  things  as  cloaks  or  dresses  in  the  world.  He'll 
understand  all  right.  ...  If  you  land  the  order,  my 
dear,  I'll  see  that  you  get  a  nice  present.  A  nice  dress 
— the  one  we're  going  to  lend  you — if  he  gives  us  a 
slice.  The  dress  and  twenty-five  in  cash,  if  he  gives 
us  all.  How's  that?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan.     "I'll  do  my  best." 

26 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"You'll  land  it.  You'll  land  it.  I  feel  as  if  we  had 
it  with  his  O.  K.  on  it." 

Susan  shivered.  "Don't — don't  count  on  me  too 
much,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "I'm  not  in  very  good 
spirits,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"A  little  pressed  for  money?"  Jeffries  hesitated, 
made  an  effort,  blurted  out  what  was  for  him,  the 
business  man,  a  giddy  generosity.  "On  your  way  out, 
stop  at  the  cashier's.  He'll  give  you  this  week's  pay 
in  advance."  Jeffries  hesitated,  decided  against  dan 
gerous  liberality.  "Not  ten,  you  understand,  but  say 
six.  You  see,  you  won't  have  been  with  us  a  full  week." 
And  he  hurried  away,  frightened  by  his  prodigality, 
by  these  hysterical  impulses  that  were  rushing  him  far 
from  the  course  of  sound  business  sense.  "As  Jones 
says,  I'm  a  generous  old  fool,"  he  muttered.  "My 
soft  heart'll  ruin  me  yet." 

Jeffries  sent  Mary  Hinkle  home  with  Susan  to  carry 
the  dress  and  hat,  to  help  her  make  a  toilet  and  to 
"start  her  off  right."  In  the  hour  before  they  left  the 
store  there  was  offered  a  typical  illustration  of  why  and 
how  "business"  is  able  to  suspend  the  normal  moral  sense 
and  to  substitute  for  it  a  highly  ingenious  counterfeit 
of  supreme  moral  obligation  to  it.  The  hysterical 
Jeffries  had  infected  the  entire  personnel  with  his  ex 
citement,  with  the  sense  that  a  great  battle  was  im 
pending  and  that  the  cause  of  the  house,  which  was 
the  cause  of  everyone  who  drew  pay  from  it,  had  been 
intrusted  to  the  young  recruit  with  the  fascinating 
figure  and  the  sweet,  sad  face.  And  Susan's  sensitive 
nature  was  soon  vibrating  in  response  to  this  feeling. 
It  terrified  her  that  she,  the  inexperienced,  had  such 
grave  responsibility.  It  made  her  heart  heavy  to  think 
of  probable  failure,  when  the  house  had  been  so  good 

27 


SUSAN   LENOX 


to  her,  had  taken  her  in,  had  given  her  unusual  v, 
had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  get  a  start  in. .lift^ 
intrusted  to  her  its  cause,  its  chance  to  retr:*0    j 
season   and   to  protect  its   employee,    instead  oi   dis 
charging  a  lot  of  them. 

"Have  you  got  long  Kbit6  gloves  ?"  asked  Mary  Hin- 
kle,  as  they  walked  ui,  Droadway,  sir  carrying  the 
dress  and  Susan  the  hat  box. 

"Only  a  few  pairs  of  short  c.ne^. 

"You  must  have  long  white  gloves — and  a  pair  of 
white  stockings." 

"I  can't  afford  them." 

"Oh,  Jeffries  told  me  to  ask  you — and  to  go  to  work 
and  buy  them  if  you  hadn't." 

They  stopped  at  Wanamaker's.  Susan  was  about  to 
pay,  when  Mary  stopped  her.  "If  you  pay,"  said  she, 
"maybe  you'll  get  your  money  back  from  the  house, 
and  maybe  you  won't.  If  I  pay,  they'll  not  make  a 
kick  on  giving  it  back  to  me." 

The  dress  Mary  had  selected  was  a  simple  white 
batiste,  cut  out  at  the  neck  prettily,  and  with  the 
elbow  sleeves  that  were  then  the  fashion.  "Your  arms 
and  throat  are  lovely,"  said  Mary.  "And  your  hands 
are  mighty  nice,  too — that's  why  I'm  sure  you've  never 
been  a  real  working  girl — leastways,  not  for  a  long 
time.  When  you  get  to  the  restaurant  and  draw  off 
your  gloves  in  a  slow,  careless,  ladylike  kind  of  way, 
and  put  your  elbows  on  the  table — my,  how  he  will  take 
on !"  Mary  looked  at  her  with  an  intense  but  not  at 
all  malignant  envy.  "If  you  don't  land  high,  it'll  be 
because  you're  a  fool.  And  you  ain't  that." 

"I'm  afraid  I  am,"  replied  Susan.  "Yes,  I  guess  I'm 
what's  called  a  fool — what  probably  is  a  fool." 

"You  want  to  look  out  then,"  warned  Miss  Hinkle. 

28 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Yo  want  to  go  to  work  and  get  over  that.  Beauty 
don?  count,  unless  a  girl's  got  shrewdness.  The  streets 
are  i  11  •''  benutks  sellin'  out  for  a  bare  living.  They 
thought  they  couMn't  help  winning,  and  they  got  left, 
and  the  plain  girls  who  had  to  hustle  and  manage  have 
passed  them.  Go  ^o  Bel's  or  rector's  or  the  Waldorf 
or  the  Madrid  JJ~  ~.™r  of  those  'tigh-toned  places,  and 
see  the  women  w  rell  clothes  and  jewelry!  The 

married  ones,  and  the  other  kind,  both.  Are  they  rav 
ing  tearing  beauties?  Not  often.  .  .  .  The  trouble 
with  me  is  I've  been  too  good-hearted  and  too  soft  about 
being  flattered.  I  was  too  good  looking,  and  a  small 
easy  living  came  too  easy.  You — I'd  say  you  were — 
that  you  had  brains  but  were  shy  about  using  them. 
What's  the  good  of  having  them?  Might  as  well  be  a 
boob.  Then,  too,  you've  got  to  go  to  work  and  look 
out  about  being  too  refined.  The  refined,  nice  ones 
goes  the  lowest — if  they  get  pushed — and  this  is  a 
pushing  world.  You'll  get  pushed  just  as  far  as 
you'll  let  'em.  Take  it  from  me.  I've  been  down  the 
line." 

Susan's  low  spirits  sank  lower.  These  disagreeable 
truths — for  observation  and  experience  made  her  fear 
they  were  truths — filled  her  with  despondency.  What 
was  the  matter  with  life  ?  As  between  the  morality  she 
had  been  taught  and  the  practical  morality  of  this 
world  upon  which  she  had  been  cast,  which  was  the 
right?  How  "take  hold"?  How  avert  the  impending 
disaster?  What  of  the  "good"  should — must — she 
throw  away?  What  should — must — she  cling  to? 

Mary  Hinkle  was  shocked  by  the  poor  little  room. 
"This  is  no  place  for  a  lady !"  cried  she.  "But  it  won't 
last  long — not  after  tonight,  if  you  play  your  cards 
halfway  right." 

18  29 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I'm  very  well  satisfied,"  said  Susan.  "If  I  can  only 
keep  this !" 

She  felt  no  interest  in  the  toilet  until  the  dress  and 
hat  were  unpacked  and  laid  out  upon  the  bed.  At 
sight  of  them  her  eyes  became  a  keen  and  lively  gray — 
never  violet  for  that  kind  of  emotion — and  there  surged 
up  the  love  of  finery  that  dwells  in  every  normal  woman 
— and  in  every  normal  man — that  is  put  there  by  a 
heredity  dating  back  through  the  ages  to  the  very 
beginning  of  conscious  life — and  does  not  leave  them 
until  life  gives  up  the  battle  and  prepares  to  vacate 
before  death.  Ellen,  the  maid,  passing  the  door,  saw 
and  entered  to  add  her  ecstatic  exclamations  to  the 
excitement.  Down  she  ran  to  bring  Mrs.  Tucker,  who 
no  sooner  beheld  the  glory  displayed  upon  the  humble 
bed  than  she  too  was  in  a  turmoil.  Susan  dressed 
with  the  aid  of  three  maids  as  interested  and  eager  as 
ever  robed  a  queen  for  coronation.  Ellen  brought  hot 
water  and  a  larger  bowl.  Mrs.  Tucker  wished  to  lend 
a  highly  scented  toilet  soap  she  used  when  she  put  on 
gala  attire;  but  Susan  insisted  upon  her  own  plain 
soap.  They  all  helped  her  bathe ;  they  helped  her  select 
the  best  underclothes  from  her  small  store.  Susan 
would  put  on  her  own  stockings ;  but  Ellen  got  one  foot 
into  one  of  the  slippers  and  Mrs.  Tucker  looked  after 
the  other  foot.  "Ain't  they  lovely?"  said  Ellen  to  Mrs. 
Tucker,  as  they  knelt  together  at  their  task.  "I  never 
see  such  feet.  Not  a  lump  on  'em,  but  like  feet  in  a 
picture." 

"It  takes  a  mighty  good  leg  to  look  good  in  a  white 
stocking,"  observed  Mary.  "But  yours  is  so  nice  and 
long  and  slim  that  they'd  stand  most  anything." 

Mrs.  Tucker  and  Ellen  stood  by  with  no  interference 
save  suggestion  and  comment,  while  Mary,  who  at  one 

30 


SUSAN  LENOX 


time  worked  for  a  hairdresser,  did  Susan's  thick  dark 
hair.  Susan  would  permit  no  elaborations,  much  to 
Miss  Hinkle's  regret.  But  the  three  agreed  that  she 
was  right  when  the  simple  sweep  of  the  vital  blue-black 
hair  was  finished  in  a  loose  and  graceful  knot  at  the 
back,  and  Susan's  small,  healthily  pallid  face  looked  its 
loveliest,  with  the  violet-gray  eyes  soft  and  sweet  and 
serious.  Mrs.  Tucker  brought  the  hat  from  the  bed, 
and  Susan  put  it  on — a  large  black  straw  of  a  most 
becoming  shape  with  two  pure  white  plumes  curling 
round  the  crown  and  a  third,  not  so  long,  rising  grace 
fully  from  the  big  buckle  where  the  three  plumes  met. 
And  now  came  the  putting  on  of  the  dress.  With  as 
much  care  as  if  they  were  handling  a  rare  and  fragile 
vase,  Mary  and  Mrs.  Tucker  held  the  dress  for  Susan 
to  step  into  it.  Ellen  kept  her  petticoat  in  place  while 
the  other  two  escorted  the  dress  up  Susan's  form. 

Then  the  three  worked  together  at  hooking  and 
smoothing.  Susan  washed  her  hands  again,  refused  to 
let  Mrs.  Tucker  run  and  bring  powder,  produced  from 
a  drawer  some  prepared  chalk  and  with  it  safeguarded 
her  nose  against  shine ;  she  tucked  the  powder  rag  into 
her  stocking.  Last  of  all  the  gloves  went  on  and  a 
small  handkerchief  was  thrust  into  the  palm  of  the 
left  glove. 

"How  do  I  look?"  asked  Susan. 

"Lovely"— "Fine"— "Just  grand,"  exclaimed  the 
three  maids. 

"I  feel  awfully  dressed  up,"  said  she.  "And  it's  so 
hot!" 

"You  must  go  right  downstairs  where  it's  cool  and 
you  won't  get  wilted,"  cried  Mrs.  Tucker.  "Hold  your 
skirts  close  on  the  way.  The  steps  and  walls  ain't  none 
too  clean." 

31 


SUSAN  LENOX 


In  the  bathroom  downstairs  there  was  a  long  mirror 
built  into  the  wall,  a  relic  of  the  old  house's  long 
departed  youth  of  grandeur.  As  the  tenant — Mr.  Jes- 
sop — was  out,  Mrs.  Tucker  led  the  way  into  it.  There 
Susan  had  the  first  satisfactory  look  at  herself.  She 
knew  she  was  a  pretty  woman;  she  would  have  been 
weak-minded  had  she  not  known  it.  But  she  was  amazed 
at  herself.  A  touch  here  and  there,  a  sinuous  shifting 
of  the  body  within  the  garments,  and  the  suggestion  of 
"dressed  up"  vanished  before  the  reflected  eyes  of  her 
agitated  assistants,  who  did  not  know  what  had  hap 
pened  but  only  saw  the  results.  She  hardly  knew  the 
tall  beautiful  woman  of  fashion  gazing  at  her  from 
the  mirror.  Could  it  be  that  this  was  her  hair? — these 
eyes  hers — and  the  mouth  and  nose — and  the  skin? 
Was  this  long  slender  figure  her  very  own?  What  an 
astounding  difference  clothes  did  make!  Never  before 
had  Susan  worn  anything  nearly  so  fine.  "This  is  the 
way  I  ought  to  look  all  the  time,"  thought  she.  "And 
this  is  the  way  I  will  look !"  Only  better — much  better. 
Already  her  true  eye  was  seeing  the  defects,  the  chances 
for  improvement — how  the  hat  could  be  re-bent  and 
re-trimmed  to  adapt  it  to  her  features,  how  the  dress 
could  be  altered  to  make  it  more  tasteful,  more  effective 
in  subtly  attracting  attention  to  her  figure. 

"How  much  do  you  suppose  the  dress  cost,  Miss 
Hinkle?"  asked  Ellen — the  question  Mrs.  Tucker  had 
been  dying  to  put  but  had  refrained  from  putting  lest 
it  should  sound  unrefined. 

"It  costs  ninety  wholesale,"  said  Miss  Hinkle. 
"That'd  mean  a  hundred  and  twenty-five — a  hundred 
and  fifty,  maybe — if  you  was  to  try  to  buy  it  in  a 
department  store.  And  the  hat — well,  Lichtenstein'd 
ask  fifty  or  sixty  for  it  and  never  turn  a  hair." 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Gosh — ee?"  exclaimed  Ellen.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
the  like?" 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  who  in  fact 
was  flabbergasted.  "Well — it's  worth  the  money  to 
them  that  can  afford  to  buy  it.  The  good  Lord  put 
everything  on  earth  to  be  used,  I  reckon.  And  Miss 
Sackville  is  the  build  for  things  like  that.  Now  it'd 
be  foolish  on  me,  with  a  stomach  and  sitter  that  won't 
let  no  skirt  hang  fit  to  look  at." 

The  bell  rang.  The  excitement  died  from  Susan's 
face,  leaving  it  pale  and  cold.  A  wave  of  nausea  swept 
through  her.  Ellen  peeped  out,  Mrs.  Tucker  and  Miss 
Hinkle  listening  with  anxious  faces.  "It's  him!"  whis 
pered  Ellen,  "and  there's  a  taxi,  too." 

It  was  decided  that  Ellen  should  go  to  the  door,  that 
as  she  opened  it  Susan  should  come  carelessly  from  the 
back  room  and  advance  along  the  hall.  And  this  pro 
gram  was  carried  out  with  the  result  that  as  Gideon 
said,  "Is  Miss  Sackville  here?"  Miss  Sackville  ap 
peared  before  his  widening,  wondering,  admiring  eyes. 
He  was  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion  and  costliness 
in  good  taste;  while  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  look  distinguished,  he  did  look  what  he  was — a 
prosperous  business  man  with  prospects.  He  came 
perfumed  and  rustling.  But  he  felt  completely  out 
classed — until  he  reminded  himself  that  for  all  her 
brave  show  of  fashionable  lady  she  was  only  a  model 
while  he  was  a  fifteen-thousand-a-year  man  on  the  way 
to  a  partnership. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  dine  on  the  veranda  at 
Sherry's?"  suggested  he.  "It'd  be  cool  there." 

At  sight  of  him  she  had  nerved  herself,  had  keyed 
herself  up  toward  recklessness.  She  was  in  for  it.  She 
would  put  it  through.  No  futile  cowardly  shrinking 

33 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  whimpering!  Why  not  try  to  get  whatever  pleas 
ure  there  was  a  chance  for?  But — Sherry's — was  it 
safe?  Yes,  almost  any  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  places — 
except  the  Waldorf,  possibly — was  safe  enough.  The 
circuit  of  Spenser  and  his  friends  lay  in  the  more  Bo 
hemian  Broadway  district.  He  had  taken  her  to  Sher 
ry's  only  once,  to  see  as  part  of  a  New  York  education 
the  Sunday  night  crowd  of  fashionable  people.  "If 
you  like,"  said  she. 

Gideon  beamed.  He  would  be  able  to  show  off  his 
prize !  As  they  drove  away  Susan  glanced  at  the  front 
parlor  windows,  saw  the  curtains  agitated,  felt  the 
three  friendly,  excited  faces  palpitating.  She  leaned 
from  the  cab  window,  waved  her  hand,  smiled.  The 
three  faces  instantly  appeared  and  immediately  hid 
again  lest  Gideon  should  see. 

But  Gideon  was  too  busy  planning  conversation. 
He  knew  Miss  Sackville  was  "as  common  as  the  rest 
of  'em — and  an  old  hand  at  the  business,  no  doubt." 
But  he  simply  could  not  abruptly  break  through  the 
barrier;  he  must  squirm  through  gradually.  "That's 
a  swell  outfit  you've  got  on,"  he  began. 

"Yes,"  replied  Susan  with  her  usual  candor. 
"Miss  Hinkle  borrowed  it  out  of  the  stock  for  me  to 
wear." 

Gideon  was  confused.  He  knew  how  she  had  got  the 
hat  and  dress,  but  he  expected  her  to  make  a  pretense. 
He  couldn't  understand  her  not  doing  it.  Such  candor 
— any  kind  of  candor — wasn't  in  the  game  of  men  and 
women  as  women  had  played  it  in  his  experience.  The 
women — all  sorts  of  women — lied  and  faked  at  their 
business  just  as  men  did  in  the  business  of  buying  and 
selling  goods.  And  her  voice — and  her  way  of  speak 
ing — they  made  him  feel  more  than  ever  out  of  his  class. 

34 


SUSAN   LENOX 


He  must  get  something  to  drink  as  soon  as  it  could  be 
served ;  that  would  put  him  at  his  ease.  Yes — a  drink 
— that  would  set  him  up  again.  And  a  drink  for  her 
— that  would  bring  her  down  from  this  queer  new  kind 
of  high  horse.  "I  guess  she  must  be  a  top  notcher — 
the  real  thing,  come  down  in  the  world — and  not  out  of 
the  near  silks.  But  she'll  be  all  right  after  a  drink. 
One  drink  of  liquor  makes  the  whole  world  kin."  That 
last  thought  reminded  him  of  his  own  cleverness  and  he 
attacked  the  situation  afresh.  But  the  conversation  as 
they  drove  up  the  avenue  was  on  the  whole  constrained 
and  intermittent — chiefly  about  the  weather.  Susan 
was  observing — and  feeling — and  enjoying.  Up  bub 
bled  her  young  spirits  perpetually  renewed  by  her 
healthy,  vital  youth  of  body.  She  was  seeing  her 
beloved  City  of  the  Sun  again.  As  they  turned  out 
of  the  avenue  for  Sherry's  main  entrance  Susan  realized 
that  she  was  in  Forty-fourth  Street.  The  street  where 
she  and  Spenser  had  lived! — had  lived  only  yesterday. 
No — not  yesterday — impossible!  Her  eyes  closed  and 
she  leaned  back  in  the  cab. 

Gideon  was  waiting  to  help  her  alight.  He  saw  that 
something  was  wrong;  it  stood  out  obviously  in  her 
ghastly  face.  He  feared  the  carriage  men  round  the 
entrance  would  "catch  on"  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
escorting  a  girl  so  unused  to  swell  surroundings  that 
she  was  ready  to  faint  with  fright.  "Don't  be  foolish," 
he  said  sharply.  Susan  revived  herself,  descended,  and 
with  head  bent  low  and  trembling  body  entered  the 
restaurant.  In  the  agitation  of  getting  a  table  and 
settling  at  it  Gideon  forgot  for  the  moment  her  sickly 
pallor. 

He  began  to  order  at  once,  not  consulting  her 
— for  he  prided  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  cookery 

35 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  assumed  that  she  knew  nothing  about  it.  "Have 
a  cocktail?"  asked  he.  "Yes,  of  course  you  will.  You 
need  it  bad  and  you  need  it  quick." 

She  said  she  preferred  sherry.  She  had  intended  to 
drink  nothing,  but  she  must  have  aid  in  conquering  her 
faintness  and  overwhelming  depression.  Gideon  took  a 
dry  martini;  ordered  a  second  for  himself  when  the 
first  came,  and  had  them  both  down  before  she  finished 
her  sherry.  "I've  ordered  champagne,"  said  he.  "I 
suppose  you  like  sweet  champagne.  Most  ladies  do, 
but  I  can't  stand  seeing  it  served  even." 

"No — I  like  it  very  dry,"  said  Susan. 

Gideon  glinted  his  eyes  gayly  at  her,  showed  his  white 
jaguar  teeth.  "So  you're  acquainted  with  fizz,  are 
you?"  He  was  feeling  his  absurd  notion  of  inequality 
in  her  favor  dissipate  as  the  fumes  of  the  cocktails  rose 
straight  and  strong  from  his  empty  stomach  to  his 
brain.  "Do  you  know,  I've  a  sort  of  feeling  that  we're 
going  to  like  each  other  a  lot.  I  think  we  make  a  hand 
some  couple — eh — what's  your  first  name?" 

"Lorna." 

''Lorna,  then.  My  name's  Ed,  but  everybody  calls 
me  Gid." 

As  soon  as  the  melon  was  served,  he  ordered  the  cham 
pagne  opened.  "To  our  better  acquaintance,"  said  he, 
lifting  his  glass  toward  her. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  in  a  suffocated  voice,  touch 
ing  her  glass  to  her  lips. 

He  was  too  polite  to  speak,  even  in  banter,  of  what 
he  thought  was  the  real  cause  of  her  politeness  and 
silence.  But  he  must  end  this  state  of  overwhelmedness 
at  grand  surroundings.  Said  he : 

"You're  kind  o'  shy,  aren't  you,  Lorna?  Or  is  that 
your  game  ?" 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"I  don't  know.  You've  had  a  very  interesting  life, 
haven't  you?  Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"Oh — just  ordinary,"  replied  he,  with  a  proper  show 
of  modesty.  And  straightway,  as  Susan  had  hoped,  he 
launched  into  a  minute  account  of  himself — the  familiar 
story  of  the  energetic,  aggressive  man  twisting  and 
kicking  his  way  up  from  two  or  three  dollars  a  week. 
Susan  seemed  interested,  but  her  mind  refused  to  occupy 
itself  with  a  narrative  so  commonplace.  After  Rod  and 
his  friends  this  boastful  business  man  was  dull  and 
tedious.  Whenever  he  laughed  at  an  account  of  his 
superior  craft — how  he  had  bluffed  this  man,  how  he 
had  euchered  that  one — she  smiled.  And  so  in  one  more 
case  the  common  masculine  delusion  that  women  listen  to 
them  on  the  subject  of  themselves,  with  interest  and 
admiration  as  profound  as  their  own,  was  not  impaired. 

"But,"  he  wound  up,  "I've  stayed  plain  Ed  Gideon.  I 
never  have  let  prosperity  swell  my  head.  And  anyone 
that  knows  me'll  tell  you  I'm  a  regular  fool  for  gen 
erosity  with  those  that  come  at  me  right.  .  .  .  IVe 
always  been  a  favorite  with  the  ladies." 

As  he  was  pausing  for  comment  from  her,  she  said, 
"I  can  believe  it."  The  word  "generosity"  kept  echoing 
in  her  mind.  Generosity — generosity.  How  much  talk 
there  was  about  it!  Everyone  was  forever  praising 
himself  for  his  generosity,  was  reciting  acts  of  the  most 
obvious  selfishness  in  proof.  Was  there  any  such  thing 
in  the  whole  world  as  real  generosity? 

"They  like  a  generous  man,"  pursued  Gid.  "I'm 
tight  in  business — I  can  see  a  dollar  as  far  as  the  next 
man  and  chase  it  as  hard  and  gr#b  it  as  tight.  But 
when  it  comes  to  the  ladies,  why,  I'm  open-handed.  If 
they  treat  me  right,  I  treat  them  right."  Then,  fearing 
that  he  had  tactlessly  raised  a  doubt  of  his  invincibility, 

37 


SUSAN   LENOX 


he  hastily  added,  "But  they  always  do  treat  me  right." 

While  he  had  been  talking  on  and  on,  Susan  had  been 
appealing  to  the  champagne  to  help  her  quiet  her 
aching  heart.  She  resolutely  set  her  thoughts  to 
wandering  among  the  couples  at  the  other  tables  in 
that  subdued  softening  light — the  beautifully  dressed 
women  listening  to  their  male  companions  with  close 
attention — were  they  too  being  bored  by  such  trash  by 
way  of  talk?  Were  they  too  simply  listening  because 
it  is  the  man  who  pays,  because  it  is  the  man  who  must 
be  conciliated  and  put  in  a  good  humor  with  himself, 
if  dinners  and  dresses  and  jewels  are  to  be  bought? 
That  tenement  attic — that  hot  moist  workroom — pov 
erty — privation — "honest  work's"  dread  rewards 

"Now,  what  kind  of  a  man  would  you  say  I  was?" 
Gideon  was  inquiring. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  replied  Susan,  with  the  dex 
terity  at  vagueness  that  habitually  self-veiling  people 
acquire  as  an  instinct. 

"Why,  as  a  man.  How  do  I  compare  with  the  other 
men  you've  known?"  And  he  "shot"  his  cuffs  with  a 
gesture  of  careless  elegance  that  his  cuff  links  might 
assist  in  the  picture  of  the  "swell  dresser"  he  felt  he 
was  posing. 

"Oh — you — you're — very  different." 

"I  am  different,"  swelled  Gideon.     "You  see,  it's  this 

way '      And  he  was  off  again  into  another  eulogy 

of  himself;  it  carried  them  through  the  dinner  and  two 
quarts  of  champagne.  He  was  much  annoyed  that  she 
did  not  take  advantage  of  the  pointed  opportunity  he 
gave  her  to  note  the  total  of  the  bill ;  he  was  even  uncer 
tain  whether  she  had  noted  that  he  gave  the  waiter  a 
dollar.  He  rustled  and  snapped  it  before  laying  it 
upon  the  tray,  but  her  eyes  looked  vague. 

38 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Well,"  said  he,  after  a  comfortable  pull  at  an  ex 
pensive-looking  cigar,  "sixteen  seventy-five  is  quite  a 
lively  little  peel-off  for  a  dinner  for  only  two.  But  it 
was  worth  it,  don't  you  think?" 

"It  was  a  splendid  dinner,"  said  Susan  truthfully. 

Gideon  beamed  in  intoxicated  good  humor.  "I  knew 
you'd  like  it.  Nothing  pleases  me  better  than  to  take 
a  nice  girl  who  isn't  as  well  off  as  I  am  out  and  blow 
her  off  to  a  cracker  jack  dinner.  Now,  you  may  have 
thought  a  dollar  was  too  much  to  tip  the  waiter?" 

"A  dollar  is — a  dollar,  isn't  it?"  said  Susan. 

Gideon  laughed.  "I  used  to  think  so.  And  most  men 
wouldn't  give  that  much  to  a  waiter.  But  I  feel  sorry 
for  poor  devils  who  don't  happen  to  be  as  lucky  or 
as  brainy  as  I  am.  What  do  you  say  to  a  turn  in 
the  Park?  We'll  take  a  hansom,  and  kind  of  jog 
along.  And  we'll  stop  at  the  Casino  and  at  Gabe's  for 
a  drink." 

"I  have  to  get  up  so  early "  began  Susan. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right."  He  slowly  winked  at  her. 
"You'll  not  have  to  bump  the  bumps  for  being  late  to 
morrow "' 

He  carried  his  liquor  easily.  Only  in  his  eyes  and 
in  his  ever  more  slippery  smile  that  would  slide  about 
his  face  did  he  show  that  he  had  been  drinking.  He 
helped  her  into  a  hansom  with  a  flourish  and,  overruling 
her  protests,  bade  the  driver  go  to  the  Casino.  Once 
under  way  she  was  glad;  her  hot  skin  and  her  weary 
heart  were  grateful  for  the  air  blowing  down  the  ave 
nue  from  the  Park's  expanse  of  green.  When  Gideon 
attempted  to  put  his  arm  around  her,  she  moved  close 
into  the  corner  and  went  on  talking  so  calmly  about 
calm  subjects  that  he  did  not  insist.  But  when  he  had 
tossed  down  a  drink  of  whiskey  at  the  Casino  and  they 

39 


SUSAN   LENOX 


resumed  the  drive  along  the  moonlit,  shady  roads,  he 
tried  again. 

"Please,"  said  she,  "don't  spoil  a  delightful  evening." 

"Now  look  here,  my  dear — haven't  I  treated  you 
right?" 

"Indeed  you  have,  Mr.  Gideon." 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  damned  formal.  Forget  the  differ 
ence  between  our  positions.  Tomorrow  I'm  going  to 
place  a  big  order  with  your  house,  if  you  treat  me  right. 
I'm  dead  stuck  on  you — and  that's  a  God's  fact. 
You've  taken  me  clean  off  my  feet.  I'm  thinking  of 
doing  a  lot  for  you." 

Susan  was  silent. 

"What  do  you  say  to  throwing  up  your  job  arid 
coming  to  Chicago  with  me?  How  much  do  you  get?" 

"Ten." 

"Why,  you  can't  live  on  that." 

"I've  lived  on  less — much  less." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Naturally  not." 

"You  want  to  get  on — don't  you?" 

"I  must." 

"You're  down  in  the  heart  about  something.    Love?" 

Susan  was  silent. 

"Cut  love  out.  Cut  it  out,  my  dear.  That  ain't  the 
way  to  get  on.  Love's  a  good  consolation  prize,  if  you 
ain't  going  to  get  anywhere,  and  know  you  ain't.  And 
it's  a  good  first  prize  after  you've  arrived  and  can 
afford  the  luxuries  of  life.  But  for  a  man — or  a  woman 
— that's  pushing  up,  it's  sheer  ruination !  Cut  it  out !" 

"I  am  cutting  it  out,"  said  Susan.  "But  that  takes 
time." 

"Not  if  you've  got  sense.  The  way  to  cut  anything 
out  is — cut  it  out! — a  quick  slash — just  cut.  If  you 

40 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


make  a  dozen  little  slashes,  each  of  them  hurts  as  much 
as  the  one  big  slash — and  the  dozen  hurt  twelve  times 
as  much — bleed  twelve  times  as  much — put  off  the  cure 
a  lot  more  than  twelve  times  as  long." 

He  had  Susan's  attention  for  the  first  time. 

"Do  you  know  why  women  don't  get  on  ?" 

"Tell  me,"  said  she.     "That's  what  I  want  to  hear." 

"Because  they  don't  play  the  game  under  the  rules. 
Now,  what  does  a  man  do  ?  Why,  he  stakes  everything 
he's  got — does  whatever's  necessary,  don't  stop  at 
nothing  to  help  him  get  there.  God !  I  wish  I'd  'a'  had 
your  looks  and  your  advantages  as  a  woman  to  help 
me.  I'd  be  a  millionaire  this  minute,  with  a  house  facing 
this  Park  and  a  yacht  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

Susan  was  listening  with  a  mind  made  abnormally 
acute  by  the  champagne  she  had  freely  drunk.  The 
coarse  bluntness  and  directness  of  the  man  did  not 
offend  her.  It  made  what  he  said  the  more  effective, 
producing  a  rude  arresting  effect  upon  her  nerves.  It 
made  the  man  himself  seem  more  of  a  person.  Susan 
was  beginning  to  have  a  kind  of  respect  for  him,  to 
change  her  first  opinion  that  he  was  merely  a  vulgar, 
pushing  commonplace. 

"Never  thought  of  that  before?" 

"Yes— I've  thought  of  it.     But "     She  paused. 

"But— what?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

''Never  mind.  Some  womanish  heart  nonsense,  I 
suppose.  Do  you  see  the  application  of  what  I've  said 
to  you  and  me?" 

"Go  on."  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  elbows  on 
the  closed  doors  of  the  hansom,  her  eyes  gazing  dream 
ily  into  the  moonlit  dimness  of  the  cool  woods  through 
which  they  were  driving. 

41 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


"You  don't  want  to  stick  at  ten  per?" 

"No." 

"It'll  be  less  in  a  little  while.  Models  don't  last. 
The  work's  too  hard." 

"I  can  see  that." 

"And  anyhow  it  means  tenement  house." 

"Yes.     Tenement  house." 

"Well— what  then?     What's  your  plan?" 

"I  haven't  any." 

"Haven't  a  plan — yet  want  to  get  on !  Is  that  good 
sense?  Did  ever  anybody  get  anywhere  without  a 
plan?" 

"I'm  willing  to  work.  I'm  going  to  work.  I  am 
working." 

"Work,  of  course.  Nobody  can  keep  alive  without 
working.  You  might  as  well  say  you're  going  to 
breathe  and  eat — Work  don't  amount  to  anything, 
for  getting  on.  It's  the  kind  of  work — working  in  a 
certain  direction — working  with  a  plan." 

"I've  got  a  plan.     But  I  can't  begin  at  it  just  yet." 

"Will  it  take  money?" 

"Some." 

"Have  you  got  it?" 

"No,"  replied  Susan.     "I'll  have  to  get  it." 

"As  an  honest  working  girl?"  said  he  with  good- 
humored  irony. 

Susan  laughed.  "It  does  sound  ridiculous,  doesn't 
it?"  said  she. 

"Here's  another  thing  that  maybe  you  haven't 
counted  in.  Looking  as  you  do,  do  you  suppose  men 
that  run  things'll  let  you  get  past  without  paying  toll? 
Not  on  your  life,  my  dear.  If  you  was  ugly,  you  might 
after  several  years  get  twenty  or  twenty-five  by  work 
ing  hard — unless  you  lost  your  figure  first.  But  the 


SUSAN  LENOX 


men  won't  let  a  good  looker  rise  that  way.  Do  you 
follow  me?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  not  talking  theory.  I'm  talking  life.  Take  you 
and  me  for  example.  I  can  help  you — help  you  a  lot. 
In  fact  I  can  put  you  on  your  feet.  And  I'm  willing. 
If  you  was  a  man  and  I  liked  you  and  wanted  to  help 
you,  I'd  make  you  help  me,  too.  I'd  make  you  do  a 
lot  of  things  for  me — maybe  spme  of  'em  not  so  very 
nice — maybe  some  of  'em  downright  dirty.  And  you'd 
do  'em,  as  all  young  fellows,  struggling  up,  have  to. 
But  you're  a  woman.  So  I'm  willing  to  make  easier 
terms.  But  I  can't  help  you  with  you  not  showing  any 
appreciation.  That  wouldn't  be  good  business — would 
it  ? — to  get  no  return  but,  'Oh,  thank  you  so  much,  Mr. 
Gideon.  So  sweet  of  you.  I'll  remember  you  in  my 
prayers.'  Would  that  be  sensible?" 

"No,"  said  Susan. 

"Well,  then !  If  I  do  you  a  good  turn,  you've  got  to 
do  me  a  good  turn — not  one  that  I  don't  want  done, 
but  one  I  do  want  done.  Ain't  I  right?  Do  you  follow 
me?" 

"I  follow  you." 

Some  vague  accent  in  Susan's  voice  made  him  feel 
dissatisfied  with  her  response.  "I  hope  you  do,"  he 
said  sharply.  "What  I'm  saying  is  dresses  on  your 
back  and  dollars  in  your  pocket — and  getting  on  in  the 
world — if  you  work  it  right." 

"Getting  on  in  the  world,"  said  Susan,  pensively. 

"I  suppose  that's  a  sneer." 

"Oh,  no.     I  was  only  thinking." 

"About  love  being  all  a  woman  needs  to  make  her 
happy,  I  suppose?" 

"No,     Love  is — Well,  it  isn't  happiness." 

43 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Because  you  let  it  run  you,  instead  of  you  running 
it.  Eh?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Sure !  Now,  let  me  tell  you,  Lorna,  dear.  Comfort 
and  luxury,  money  in  bank,  property,  a  good  solid 
position — that's  the  foundation.  Build  on  that  and 
you'll  build  solid.  Build  on  love  and  sentiment  and 
you're  building  upside  down.  You're  putting  the  gin 
gerbread  where  the  rock  ought  to  be.  Follow  me?" 

"I  see  what  you  mean." 

He  tried  to  find  her  hand.     "What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I'll  think  of  it." 

"Well,  think  quick,  my  dear.  Opportunity  doesn't 
wait  round  in  anybody's  outside  office.  .  .  .  Maybe  you 
don't  trust  me — don't  think  I'll  deliver  the  goods?" 

"No.     I  think  you're  honest." 

"You're  right,  I  am.  I  do  what  I  say  I'll  do.  That's 
why  I've  got  on.  That's  why  I'll  keep  on  getting  on. 
Let's  drive  to  a  hotel." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  for  the  first 
time  since  he  began  his  discourse  on  making  one's  way 
in  the  world.  Her  look  was  calm,  inquiring — would 
have  been  chilling  to  a  man  of  sensibility — that  is,  of 
sensibility  toward  an  unconquered  woman. 


Ill 


AT  the  lunch  hour  the  next  day  Mary  Hinkle 
knocked  at  the  garret  in  Clinton  Place.  Get 
ting  no  answer,  she  opened  the  door.  At  the 
table  close  to  the  window  was  Susan  in  a  nightgown, 
her  hair  in  disorder  as  if  she  had  begun  to  arrange  it 
and  had  stopped  halfway.  Her  eyes  turned  listlessly 
in  Mary's  direction — dull  eyes,  gray,  heavily  circled. 

"You  didn't  answer,  Miss  Sackville.  So  I  thought 
I'd  come  in  and  leave  a  note,"  explained  Mary.  Her 
glance  was  avoiding  Susan's. 

"Come  for  the  dress  and  hat?"  said  Susan.  "There 
they  are."  And  she  indicated  the  undisturbed  bed 
whereon  hat  and  dress  were  carelessly  flung. 

"My,  but  it's  hot  in  this  room!"  exclaimed  Mary. 
"You  must  move  up  to  my  place.  There's  a  room  and 
bath  vacant — only  seven  per." 

Susan  seemed  not  to  hear.  She  was  looking  dully 
at  her  hands  upon  the  table  before  her. 

"Mr.  Jeffries  sent  me  to  ask  you  how  you  were.  He 
was  worried  because  you  didn't  come.  Mr.  Gideon 
telephoned  down  the  order  a  while  ago.  Mr.  Jeffries 
says  you  are  to  keep  the  dress  and  hat." 

"No,"  said  Susan.     "Take  them  away  with  you." 

"Aren't  you  coming  down  this  afternoon?" 

"No,"  replied  Susan.     "I've  quit." 

"Quit?"  cried  Miss  Hinkle.  Her  expression  grad 
ually  shifted  from  astonishment  to  pleased  understand 
ing.  "Oh,  I  see !  You've  got  something  better." 

"No.     But  I'll  find  something." 

45 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Mary  studied  the  situation,  using  Susan's  expression 
less  face  as  a  guide.  After  a  time  she  seemed  to  get 
from  it  a  clew.  With  the  air  of  friendly  experience 
bent  on  aiding  helpless  inexperience  she  pushed  aside 
the  dress  and  made  room  for  herself  on  the  bed.  "Don't 
be  a  fool,  Miss  Sackville,"  said  she.  "If  you  don't  like 
that  sort  of  thing — you  know  what  I  mean — why,  you 
can  live  six  months — maybe  a  year — on  the  reputation 
of  what  you've  done  and  their  hope  that  you'll  weaken 
down  and  do  it  again.  That'll  give  you  time  to  look 
round  and  find  something  else.  For  pity's  sake,  don't 
turn  yourself  loose  without  a  job.  You  got  your  place 
so  easy  that  you  think  you  can  get  one  any  old  time. 
There's  where  you're  wrong.  Believe  me,  you  played  in 
luck — and  luck  don't  come  round  often.  I  know  what 
I'm  talking  about.  So  I  say,  don't  be  a  fool !" 

"I  am  a  fool,"  said  Susan. 

"Well — get  over  it.  And  don't  waste  any  time  about 
it,  either." 

"I  can't  go  back,"  said  Susan  stolidly.  "I  can't  face 
them." 

"Face  who?"  cried  Mary.  "Business  is  business. 
Everybody  understands  that.  All  the  people  down 
there  are  crazy  about  you  now.  You  got  the  house  a 
hundred- thousand-dollar  order.  You  don't  suppose 
anybody  in  business  bothers  about  how  an  order's  got 
• — do  you?" 

"It's  the  way  I  feel — not  the  way  they  feel." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Miss  Sackville." 

Susan  listened  with  a  smile  that  barely  disturbed  the 
stolid  calm  of  her  features.  "I'm  not  going  back,"  she 
said. 

Mary  Hinkle  was  silenced  by  the  quiet  finality  of  her 
voice.  Studying  that  delicate  face,  she  felt,  behind  its 

46 


SUSAN  LENOX 


pallid  impassiveness,  behind  the  refusal  to  return,  a 
reason  she  could  not  comprehend.  She  dimly  realized 
that  she  would  respect  it  if  she  could  understand  it ; 
for  she  suspected  it  had  its  origin  somewhere  in  Susan's 
"refined  ladylike  nature."  She  knew  that  once  in  a 
while  among  the  wrimen  she  was  acquainted  with  there 
did  happen  one  who  preferred  death  in  any  form  of 
misery  to  leading  a  lax  life — and  indisputable  facts 
had  convinced  her  that  not  always  were  these  women 
"just  stupid  ignorant  fools."  She  herself  possessed  no 
such  refinement  of  nerves  or  whatever  it  was.  She  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  loose  family  and  in  a  loose  neigh 
borhood.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  making  all  sorts  of 
pretenses,  because  that  was  the  custom,  while  being 
candid  about  such  matters  was  regarded  as  bad  form. 
She  was  not  fooled  by  these  pretenses  in  other  girls, 
though  they  often  did  fool  each  other.  In  Susan,  she 
instinctively  felt,  it  was  not  pretense.  It  was  something 
or  other  else — it  was  a  dangerous  reality.  She  liked 
Susan ;  in  her  intelligence  and  physical  charm  were  the 
possibilities  of  getting  far  up  in  the  world ;  it  seemed  a 
pity  that  she  was  thus  handicapped.  Still,  perhaps 
Susan  would  stumble  upon  some  worth  while  man  who, 
attempting  to  possess  her  without  marriage  and  failing, 
would  pay  the  heavy  price.  There  was  always  that 
chance — a  small  chance,  smaller  even  than  finding  by 
loose  living  a  worth  while  man  who  would  marry  you 
because  you  happened  exactly  to  suit  him — to  give  him 
enough  only  to  make  him  feel  that  he  wanted  more. 
Still,  Susan  was  unusually  attractive,  and  luck  some 
times  did  come  a  poor  person's  way — sometimes. 

"I'm  overdue  back,"  said  Mary.  "You  want  me  to 
tell  'em  that?" 

"Yes." 

47 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"You'll  have  hard  work  finding  a  job  at  anything  like 
as  much  as  ten  per.  I've  got  two  trades,  and  I  couldn't 
at  either  one." 

"I  don't  expect  to  find  it." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Take  what  I  can  get — until  I've  been  made  hard 
enough — or  strong  enough — or  whatever  it  is — to  stop 
being  a  fool." 

This  indication  of  latent  good  sense  relieved  Miss 
Hinkle.  "I'll  tell  'em  you  may  be  down  tomorrow. 
Think  it  over  for  another  day." 

Susan  shook  her  head.  "They'll  have  to  get  some 
body  else." 

"After  you've  had  something  to  eat,  you'll  feel  dif 
ferent." 

And  Miss  Hinkle  nodded  brightly  and  departed. 
Susan  resumed  her  seat  at  the  bare  wobbly  little  table, 
resumed  her  listless  attitude.  She  did  not  move  until 
Ellen  came  in,  holding  out  a  note  and  saying,  "A  boy 
from  your  store  brung  this — here." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan,  taking  the  note.  In  it 
she  found  a  twenty-dollar  bill  and  a  five.  On  the  sheet 
of  paper  round  it  was  scrawled : 

Take  the  day  off.  Here's  your  commission.  We'll  raise 
your  pay  in  a  few  weeks,  L.  L.  J. 

So  Mary  Hinkle  had  told  them  either  that  she  was 
quitting  or  that  she  was  thinking  of  quitting,  and  they 
wished  her  to  stay,  had  used  the  means  they  believed 
she  could  not  resist.  In  a  dreary  way  this  amused  her. 
As  if  she  cared  whether  or  not  life  was  kept  in  this 
worthless  body  of  hers,  in  her  tired  heart,  in  her  dis 
gusted  mind !  Then  she  dropped  back  into  listlessness. 

48 


SUSAN  LENOX 


When  she  was  aroused  again  it  was  by  Gideon,  com 
pletely  filling  the  small  doorway.  "Hello,  my  dear!" 
cried  he  cheerfully.  "Mind  my  smoking?" 

Susan  slowly  turned  her  head  toward  him,  surveyed 
him  with  an  expression  but  one  removed  from  the  blank 
look  she  would  have  had  if  there  had  been  no  one  before 
her. 

"I'm  feeling  fine  today,"  pursued  Gideon,  advancing 
a  step  and  so  bringing  himself  about  halfway  to  the 
table.  "Had  a  couple  of  pick-me-ups  and  a  fat  break 
fast.  How  are  you?" 

"I'm  always  well." 

"Thought  you  seemed  a  little  seedy.  You'll  be 
mighty  glad  to  get  out  of  this  hole.  Gosh!  It's  hot. 
Don't  see  how  you  stand  it.  I'm  a  law-abiding  citizen 
but  I  must  say  I'd  turn  criminal  before  I'd  put  up  with 
this." 

In  the  underworld  from  which  Gideon  had  sprung — 
the  underworld  where  welters  the  overwhelming  mass 
of  the  human  race — there  are  three  main  types.  There 
are  the  hopeless  and  spiritless — the  mass — who  welter 
passively  on,  breeding  and  dying.  There  are  the  spir 
ited  who  also  possess  both  shrewdness  and  calculation ; 
the  push  upward  by  hook  and  by  crook,  always  mind 
ful  of  the  futility  of  the  struggle  of  the  petty  criminal 
of  the  slums  against  the  police  and  the  law ;  they  arrive 
and  found  the  aristocracies  of  the  future.  The  third 
is  the  criminal  class.  It  is  also  made  up  of  the  spirited 
— but  the  spirited  who,  having  little  shrewdness  and  no 
calculation — that  is,  no  ability  to  foresee  and  measure 
consequences — wage  clumsy  war  upon  society  and  pay 
the  penalty  of  their  fatuity  in  lives  of  wretchedness  even 
more  wretched  than  the  common  lot.  Gideon  belonged 
to  the  second  class — the  class  that  pushes  upward  with- 

49 


SUSAN  LENOX 


out  getting  into  jail;  he  was  a  fair  representative  of 
this  type,  neither  its  best  nor  its  worst,  but  about  mid 
way  of  its  range  between  arrogant,  all-dominating  plu 
tocrat  and  shystering  merchant  or  lawyer  or  politician 
who  barely  escapes  the  criminal  class. 

"You  don't  ask  me  to  sit  down,  dearie,"  he  went  on 
facetiously.  "But  I'm  not  so  mad  that  I  won't  do  it." 

He  took  the  seat  Miss  Hinkle  had  cleared  on  the  bed. 
His  glance  wandered  disgustedly  from  object  to  object 
in  the  crowded  yet  bare  attic.  He  caught  a  whiff  of 
the  odor  from  across  the  hall — from  the  fresh-air  shaft 
— and  hastily  gave  several  puffs  at  his  cigar  to  saturate 
his  surroundings  with  its  perfume.  Susan  acted  as  if 
she  were  alone  in  the  room.  She  had  not  even  drawn 
together  her  nightgown. 

"I  phoned  your  store  about  you,"  resumed  Gideon. 
"They  said  you  hadn't  showed  up — wouldn't  till  to 
morrow.  So  I  came  round  here  and  your  landlady 
sent  me  up.  I  want  to  take  you  for  a  drive  this  after 
noon.  We  can  dine  up  to  Claremont  or  farther,  if 
you  like." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Susan.    "I  can't  go." 

"Upty-tupty !"  cried  Gideon.  "What's  the  lady  so 
sour  about?" 

"I'm  not  sour." 

"Then  why  won't  you  go?" 

"I  can't." 

"But  we'll  have  a  chance  to  talk  over  what  I'm  going 
to  do  for  you." 

"You've  kept  your  word,"  said  Susan. 

"That  was  only  part.  Besides,  I'd  have  given  your 
house  the  order,  anyhow." 

Susan's  eyes  suddenly  lighted  up.  "You  would?" 
she  cried. 

50 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Well — a  part  of  it.  Not  so  much,  of  course.  But 
I  never  let  pleasure  interfere  with  business.  Nobody 
that  does  ever  gets  very  far." 

Her  expression  made  him  hasten  to  explain — without 
being  conscious  why.  "I  said — part  of  the  order,  my 
dear.  They  owe  to  you  about  half  of  what  they'll  make 
off  me.  .  .  .  What's  that  money  on  the  table?  Your 
commission  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Twenty-five?  Urn!"  Gideon  laughed.  "Well,  I 
suppose  it's  as  generous  as  I'd  be,  in  the  same  circum 
stances.  Encourage  your  employees,  but  don't  swell- 
head  'em — that's  the  good  rule.  I've  seen  many  a  prom 
ising  young  chap  ruined  by  a  raise  of  pay.  .  .  .  Now, 
about  you  and  me."  Gideon  took  a  roll  of  bills  from 
his  trousers  pocket,  counted  off  five  twenties,  tossed 
them  on  the  table.  "There!" 

One  of  the  bills  in  falling  touched  Susan's  hand.  She 
jerked  the  hand  away  as  if  the  bill  had  been  afire.  She 
took  all  five  of  them,  folded  them,  held  them  out  to 
him.  "The  house  has  paid  me,"  said  she. 

"That's  honest,"  said  he,  nodding  approvingly.  "I 
like  it.  But  in  your  case  it  don't  apply." 

These  two,  thus  facing  a  practical  situation,  revealed 
an  important,  overlooked  truth  about  human  morals. 
Humanity  divides  broadly  into  three  classes:  the  ar 
rived;  those  who  will  never  arrive  and  will  never  try; 
those  in  a  state  of  flux,  attempting  and  either  failing 
or  succeeding.  The  arrived  and  the  inert  together 
preach,  and  to  a  certain  extent  practice  an  idealistic 
system  of  morality  that  interferes  with  them  in  no  way. 
It  does  not  interfere  with  the  arrived  because  they  have 
no  need  to  infringe  it,  except  for  amusement;  it  does 
not  interfere  with  the  inert,  but  rather  helps  them  to 

51 


SUSAN  LENOX 


bear  their  lot  by  giving  them  a  cheering  notion  that 
their  insignificance  is  due  to  their  goodness.  This 
idealistic  system  receives  the  homage  of  lip  service  from 
the  third  and  struggling  section  of  mankind,  but  no 
more,  for  in  practice  it  would  hamper  them  at  every 
turn  in  their  efforts  to  fight  their  way  up.  Susan  was, 
at  that  stage  of  her  career,  a  candidate  for  membership 
in  the  struggling  class.  Her  heart  was  set  firmly 
against  the  unwritten,  unspoken,  even  unwhispered  code 
of  practical  morality  which  dominates  the  struggling 
class.  But  life  had  at  least  taught  her  the  folly  of 
\  intolerance.  So  when  Gideon  talked  in  terms  of  that 
practical  morality,  she  listened  without  offense;  and 
she  talked  to  him  in  terms  of  it  because  to  talk  the 
idealistic  morality  in  which  she  had  been  bred  and  be 
fore  which  she  bowed  the  knee  in  sincere  belief  would 
have  been  simply  to  excite  his  laughter  at  her  innocence 
and  his  contempt  for  her  folly. 

"I  feel  that  I've  been  paid,"  said  she.  "I  did  it  for 
the  house — because  I  owed  it  to  them." 

"Only  for  the  house?"  said  he,  with  insinuating  ten 
derness.  He  took  and  pressed  the  fingers  extended 
with  the  money  in  them. 

"Only  for  the  house,"  she  repeated,  a  hard  note  in 
her  voice.  And  her  fingers  slipped  away,  leaving  the 
money  in  his  hand.  "At  least,  I  suppose  it  must  have 
been  for  the  house,"  she  added,  reflectively,  talking  to 
herself  aloud.  "Why  did  I  do  it?  I  don't  know.  I 
don't  know.  They  say  one  always  has  a  reason  for 
what  one  does.  But  I  often  can't  find  any  reason  for 
things  I  do — that,  for  instance.  I  simply  did  it  because 
it  seemed  to  me  not  to  matter  much  what  7  did  with 
*  myself,  and  they  wanted  the  order  so  badly."  Then 
she  happened  to  become  conscious  of  his  presence  and 

52 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  see  a  look  of  uneasiness,  self-complacence,  as  if  he 
were  thinking  that  he  quite  understood  this  puzzle. 
She  disconcerted  him  with  what  vain  men  call  a  cruel 
snub.  "But  whatever  the  reason,  it  certainly  couldn't 
have  been  you,"  said  she. 

"Now,  look  here,  Lorna,"  protested  Gideon,  the  be 
ginnings  of  anger  in  his  tone.  "That's  not  the  way 
to  talk  if  you  want  to  get  on." 

She  eyed  him  with  an  expression  which  would  have 
raised  a  suspicion  that  he  was  repulsive  in  a  man  less 
self-confident,  less  indifferent  to  what  the  human  beings 
he  used  for  pleasure  or  profit  thought  of  him. 

"To  say  nothing  of  what  I  can  do  for  you,  there's 
the  matter  of  future  orders.  I  order  twice  a  year — in 
big  lots  always." 

"I've  quit  down  there." 

"Oh!  Somebody  else  has  given  you  something  good 
— eh?  That's  why  you're  cocky." 

"No." 

"Then  why've  you  quit?" 

"I  wish  you  could  tell  me.  I  don't  understand.  But 
—I've  done  it." 

Gideon  puzzled  with  this  a  moment,  decided  that  it 
was  beyond  him  and  unimportant,  anyhow.  He  blew 
out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  stretched  his  legs  and  took  up 
the  main  subject.  "I  was  about  to  say,  I've  got  a 
place  for  you.  I'd  like  to  take  you  to  Chicago." 

"So  you  look  on  me  as  your  mistress?"  And  never 
in  all  her  life  had  her  eyes  been  so  gray — .the  gray 'of 
crudest  irony. 

"Now  what's  the  use  discussing  those  things?  You 
know  the  world.  You're  a  sensible  woman." 

Susan  made  closer  and  more  secure  the  large  loose 
coil  of  her  hair,  rose  and  leaned  against  the  table. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"You  don't  understand.  You  couldn't.  I'm  not  one 
of  those  respectable  women,  like  many  wives,  who  be 
long  to  men.  And  I'm  not  one  of  the  other  kind  who 
also  throw  in  their  souls  with  their  bodies  for  good 
measure.  Do  you  think  you  had  me?"  She  laughed 
with  maddening  gentle  mockery,  went  on:  "I  don't 
hate  you.  I  don't  despise  you  even.  You  mean  well. 
But  the  sight  of  you  makes  me  sick.  So  I  want  to 
forget  you  as  soon  as  I  can — and  that  will  be  soon 
after  you  get  out  of  my  sight." 

Her  blazing  eyes  startled  him.  Her  voice,  not  lifted 
above  its  usual  quiet  tones,  enraged  him.  "You — you !" 
he  cried.  "You  must  be  crazy,  to  talk  to  me  like 
that!" 

She  nodded.  "Yes — crazy,"  said  she  with  the  same 
quiet  intensity.  "For  I  know  what  kind  of  a  beast  you 
are — a  clean,  good-natured  beast,  but  still  a  beast. 
And  how  could  you  understand?" 

He  had  got  upon  his  feet.  He  looked  as  if  he 
were  going  to  strike  her. 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  toward  the  door.  He 
felt  at  a  hopeless  disadvantage  with  her — with  this 
woman  who  did  not  raise  her  voice,  did  not  need  to 
raise  it  to  express  the  uttermost  of  any  passion.  His 
jagged  teeth  gleamed  through  his  mustache;  his 
shrewd  little  eyes  snapped  like  an  angry  rat's.  He 
fumbled  about  through  the  steam  of  his  insane  rage 
for  adequate  results — in  vain.  He  rushed  from  the 
room  and  bolted  downstairs. 

Within  an  hour  Susan  was  out,  looking  for  work. 
There  could  be  no  turning  back  now.  Until  she  went 
with  Gideon  it  had  been  as  if  her  dead  were  still  un- 
buried  and  in  the  house.  Now • 

Never   again   could   she  even   indulge   in   dreams   of 

54 


SUSAN  LENOX 


going  to  Rod.  That  part  of  her  life  was  finished  with 
all  the  finality  of  the  closed  grave.  Grief — yes.  But 
the  same  sort  of  grief  as  when  a  loved  one,  after  a 
long  and  painful  illness,  finds  relief  in  death.  Her 
love  for  Rod  had  been  stricken  of  a  mortal  illness  the 
night  of  their  arrival  in  New  York.  After  lingering 
for  a  year  between  life  and  death,  after  a  long  death 
agony,  it  had  expired.  The  end  came — these  matters 
of  the  exact  moment  of  inevitable  events  are  unim 
portant  but  have  a  certain  melancholy  interest — the 
end  came  when  she  made  choice  where  there  was  no 
choice,  in  the  cab  with  Gideon. 

For   better   or   for   worse   she   was    free.      She   was 
ready  to  begin  her  career. 


IV 

AFTER  a  few  days,  when  she  was  viewing  her 
situation  in  a  calmer,  more  normal  mood  with 
the  practical  feminine  eye,  she  regretted  that 
she  had  refused  Gideon's  money.  She  was  proud  of 
that  within  herself  which  had  impelled  and  compelled 
her  to  refuse  it ;  but  she  wished  she  had  it.  Taking  it., 
she  felt,  would  have  added  nothing  to  her  humiliation 
in  her  own  sight;  and  for  what  he  thought  of  her,  one 
way  or  the  other,  she  cared  not  a  pin.  It  is  one  of  the 
familiar  curiosities  of  human  inconsistency  which  is  at 
bottom  so  completely  consistent,  that  she  did  not  re 
gret  having  refused  his  far  more  valuable  offer  to  aid 
her. 

She  did  not  regret  even  during  those  few  next  days 
of  disheartening  search  for  work.  We  often  read  how 
purpose  can  be  so  powerful  that  it  compels.  No  doubt 
if  Susan's  purpose  had  been  to  get  temporary  relief — 
or,  perhaps,  had  it  been  to  get  permanent  relief  by 
weaving  a  sex  spell — she  would  in  that  desperate  mood 
have  been  able  to  compel.  Unfortunately  she  was  not 
seeking  to  be  a  pauper  or  a  parasite ;  she  was  trying  to 
find  steady  employment  at  living  wages — that  is,  at 
wages  above  the  market  value  for  female — and  for 
most  male — labor.  And  that  sort  of  purpose  cannot 
compel. 

Our  civilization  overflows  with  charity — which  is 
simply  willingness  to  hand  back  to  labor  as  generous 
gracious  alms  a  small  part  of  the  loot  from  the  just 
wages  of  labor.  But  of  real  help — just  wages  for  hon- 

56 


SUSAN   LENOX 


est  labor — there  is  little,  for  real  help  would  disarrange 
the  system,  would  abolish  the  upper  classes. 

She  had  some  faint  hopes  in  the  direction  of  millinery 
and  dressmaking,  the  things  for  which  she  felt  she 
had  distinct  talent.  She  was  soon  disabused.  There 
was  nothing  for  her,  and  could  be  nothing  until  after 
several  years  of  doubtful  apprenticeship  in  the  trades 
to  which  any  female  person  seeking  employment  to 
piece  out  an  income  instinctively  turned  first  and  of 
fered  herself  at  the  employer's  own  price.  Day  after 
day,  from  the  first  moment  of  the  industrial  day  until 
its  end,  she  hunted — wearily,  yet  unweariedly — with 
resolve  living  on  after  the  death  of  hope.  She  an 
swered  advertisements;  despite  the  obviously  sensible 
warnings  of  the  working  girls  she  talked  with  she  even 
consulted  and  took  lists  from  the  religious  and  char 
itable  organizations,  patronized  by  those  whose  enthu 
siasm  about  honest  work  had  never  been  cooled  by 
doing  or  trying  to  do  any  of  it,  and  managed  by  those 
who,  beginning  as  workers,  had  made  all  haste  to  escape 
from  it  into  positions  where  they  could  live  by  talking 
about  it  and  lying  about  it — saying  the  things  com 
fortable  people  subscribe  to  philanthropies  to  hear. 

There  was  work,  plenty  of  it.  But  not  at  decent 
wages,  and  not  leading  to  wages  that  could  be  earned 
without  viciously  wronging  those  under  her  in  an  exec 
utive  position.  But  even  in  those  cases  the  prospect 
of  promotion  was  vague  and  remote,  with  illness  and 
failing  strength  and  poor  food,  worse  clothing  and 
lodgings,  as  certainties  straightway.  At  some  places 
she  was  refused  with  the  first  glance  at  her.  No  good- 
looking  girls  wanted;  even  though  they  behaved  them 
selves  and  attracted  customers,  the  customers  lost  sight 
of  matters  of  merchandise  in  the  all-absorbing  matter 

57 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  sex.  In  offices  a  good-looking  girl  upset  discipline, 
caused  the  place  to  degenerate  into  a  deer-haunt  in 
the  mating  season.  No  place  did  she  find  offering  more 
than  four  dollars  a  week,  except  where  the  dress  re 
quirements  made  the  nominally  higher  wages  even  less. 
Everywhere  women's  wages  were  based  upon  the  as 
sumption  that  women  either  lived  at  home  or  made  the 
principal  part  of  their  incomes  by  prostitution,  dis 
guised  or  frank.  In  fact,  all  wages — even  the  wages 
of  men — except  in  a  few  trades — were  too  small  for 
an  independent  support.  There  had  to  be  a  family — 
and  the  whole  family  had  to  work — and  even  then  the 
joint  income  was  not  enough  for  decency.  She  had  no 
family  or  friends  to  help  her — at  least,  no  friends  ex 
cept  those  as  poor  as  herself,  and  she  could  not  commit 
the  crime  of  adding  to  their  miseries. 

She  had  less  than  ten  dollars  left.  She  must  get  to 
work  at  once — and  what  she  earned  must  supply  her 
with  all.  A  note  came  from  Jeffries — a  curt  request 
that  she  call — curt  to  disguise  the  eagerness  to  have 
her  back.  She  tore  it  up.  She  did  not  even  debate 
the  matter.  It  was  one  of  her  significant  qualities  that 
she  never  had  the  inclination,  apparently  lacked  the 
power,  to  turn  back  once  she  had  turned  away.  Mary 
Hinkle  came,  urged  her.  Susan  listened  in  silence, 
merely  shook  her  head  for  answer,  changed  the  subject. 

In  the  entrance  to  the  lofts  of  a  tall  Broadway 
building  she  saw  a  placard:  "Experienced  hands  at 
fancy  ready-to-wear  hat  trimming  wanted."  She 
climbed  three  steep  flights  and  was  in  a  large,  low- 
ceilinged  room  where  perhaps  seventy-five  girls  were 
at  work.  She  paused  in  the  doorway  long  enough  to 
observe  the  kind  of  work — a  purely  mechanical  process 
of  stitching  a  few  trimmings  in  exactly  the  same  way 

58 


SUSAN   LENOX 


upon  a  cheap  hat  frame.  Then  she  went  to  an  open 
window  in  a  glass  partition  and  asked  employment  of 
a  young  Jew  with  an  incredibly  long  nose  thrusting 
from  the  midst  of  a  pimply  face  which  seemed  merely 
its  too  small  base. 

"Experienced  ?"  asked  the  young  man. 
"I  can  do  what  those  girls  are  doing." 
With  intelligent  eyes  he  glanced  at  her  face,  then 
let  his  glance  rove  contemptuously  over  the  room  full 
of  workers.    "I  should  hope  so,"  said  he.    "Forty  cents 
a  dozen.     Want  to  try  it?" 
"When  may  I  go  to  work?" 
"Right  away.     Write  your  name  here." 
Susan  signed  her  name  to  what  she  saw  at  a  glance 
was   some  sort   of   contract.      She  knew  it   contained 
nothing  to  her  advantage,  much  to  her  disadvantage. 
But  she  did  not  care.     She  had  to  have  work — some 
thing,  anything  that  would  stop  the  waste  of  her  slen 
der  capital.    And  within  fifteen  minutes  she  was  seated 
in  the  midst  of  the  sweating,  almost  nauseatingly  odor 
ous  women  of  all  ages,  was  toiling  away  at  the  simple 
task  of  making  an  ugly  hat  frame  still  more  ugly  by 
the  addition  of  a  bit  of  tawdry  cotton  ribbon,  a  buckle, 
and  a  bunch  of  absurdly  artificial  flowers.     She  was 
soon  able  to  calculate  roughly  what  she  could  make  in 
six  days.     She  thought  she  could  do  two  dozen  of  the 
hats  a  day;  and  twelve  dozen  hats  at  forty  cents  the 
dozen  would  mean  four  dollars  and  eighty  cents  a  week ! 
Four  dollars  and  eighty  cents!     Less  than  she  had 
planned  to  set  aside  for  food  alone,  out  of  her  ten 
dollars  as  a  model. 

Next  her  on  the  right  sat  a  middle-aged  woman, 
grossly  fat,  repulsively  shapeless,  piteously  homely — 
one  of  those  luckless  human  beings  who  are  foredoomed 

59 


SUSAN  LENOX 


from  the  outset  never  to  know  any  of  the  great  joys 
of  life — the  joys  that  come  through  our  power  to 
attract  our  fellow-beings.  As  this  woman  stitched 
away,  squinting  through  the  steel-framed  spectacles 
set  upon  her  snub  nose,  Susan  saw  that  she  had  not 
even  good  health  to  mitigate  her  lot,  for  her  color  was 
pasty  and  on  her  dirty  skin  lay  blotches  of  dull  red. 
Except  a  very  young  girl  here  and  there  all  the  women 
had  poor  or  bad  skins.  And  Susan  was  not  made  dis 
dainful  by  the  odor  which  is  far  worse  than  that  of  any 
lower  animal,  however  dirty,  because  the  human  animal 
must  wear  clothing.  She  had  lived  in  wretchedness  in 
a  tenement;  she  knew  that  this  odor  was  an  inevitable 
part  of  tenement  life  when  one  has  neither  the  time  nor 
the  means  to  be  clean.  Poor  food,  foul  air,  broken  sleep 
— bad  health,  disease,  unsightly  faces,  repulsive 
bodies ! 

No  wonder  the  common  people  looked  almost  like  an 
other  race  in  contrast  with  their  brothers  and  sisters 
of  the  comfortable  classes.  Another  race!  The  race 
into  which  she  would  soon  be  reborn  under  the  black 
magic  of  poverty!  As  she  glanced  and  reflected  on 
what  she  saw,  viewed  it  in  the  light  of  her  experience, 
her  fingers  slackened,  and  she  could  speed  them  up  only 
in  spurts. 

"If  I  stay  here,"  thought  she,  "in  a  few  weeks  I  shall 
be  like  these  others.  No  matter  how  hard  I  may  fight, 
I'll  be  dragged  down."  As  impossible  to  escape  the 
common  lot  as  for  a  swimmer  alone  in  midocean  to  keep 
up  indefinitely;  whether  long  or  brief,  the  struggle 
could  have  but  the  one  end — to  be  sunk  in,  merged  in, 
the  ocean. 

It  took  no  great  amount  of  vanity  for  her  to  realize 
that  she  was  in  every  way  the  superior  of  all  those 

60 


SUSAN  LENOX 


around  her — in  every  way  except  one.  What  did  she 
lack?  Why  was  it  that  with  her  superior  intelligence, 
her  superior  skill  both  of  mind  and  of  body,  she  could 
be  thus  dragged  down  and  held  far  below  her  natural 
level?  Why  could  she  not  lift  herself  up  among  the 
sort  of  people  with  whom  she  belonged — or  even  make  a 
beginning  toward  lifting  herself  up?  Why  could  she 
not  take  hold?  What  did  she  lack?  What  must  she 
acquire — or  what  get  rid  of? 

At  lunch  time  she  walked  with  the  ugly  woman  up 
and  down  the  first  side  street  above  the  building  in 
which  the  factory  was  located.  She  ate  a  roll  she 
bought  from  a  pushcart  man,  the  woman  munched  an 
apple  with  her  few  remnants  of  teeth.  "Most  of  the 
girls  is  always  kicking,"  said  the  woman.  "But  I'm 
mighty  satisfied.  I  get  enough  to  eat  and  to  wear,  and 
I've  got  a  bed  to  sleep  in — and  what  else  is  there  in  life 
for  anybody,  rich  or  poor?" 

"There's  something  to  be  said  for  that,"  replied 
Susan,  marveling  to  find  in  this  piteous  creature  the 
only  case  of  thorough  content  she  had  ever  seen. 

"I  make  my  four  to  five  per,"  continued  the  woman. 
"And  I've  got  only  myself.  Thank  God,  I  was  never 
fool  enough  to  marry.  It's  marrying  that  drags  us 
poor  people  down  and  makes  us  miserable.  Some  says 
to  me,  'Ain't  you  lonesome?'  And  I  says  to  them,  says 
I,  'Why,  I'm  used  to  being  alone.  I  don't  want  any 
thing  else.'  If  they  was  all  like  me,  they'd  not  be  fight- 
in'  and  drinkin'  and  makin'  bad  worse.  The  bosses 
always  likes  to  give  me  work.  They  say  I'm  a  model 
worker,  and  I'm  proud  to  say  they're  right.  I'm 
mighty  grateful  to  the  bosses  that  provide  for  the  like 
of  us.  What'd  we  do  without  'em?  That's  what  /'d 
like  to  know." 

19  61 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  had  pitied  this  woman  because  she  could  never 
hope  to  experience  any  of  the  great  joys  of  life. 
What  a  waste  of  pity,  she  now  thought.  She  had 
overlooked  the  joy  of  joys — delusions.  This  woman 
was  secure  for  life  against  unhappiness. 

A  few  days,  and  Susan  was  herself  regarded  as  a 
model  worker.  She  turned  out  hats  so  rapidly  that  the 
forewoman,  urged  on  by  Mr.  Himberg,  the  proprietor, 
began  to  nag  at  the  other  girls.  And  presently  a  notice 
of  general  reduction  to  thirty-five  cents  a  dozen  was 
posted.  There  had  been  a  union;  it  had  won  a  strike 
two  years  before — and  then  had  been  broken  up  by 
shrewd  employing  of  detectives  who  had  got  themselves 
elected  officers.  With  the  union  out  of  the  way,  there 
was  no  check  upon  the  bosses  in  their  natural  and 
lawful  effort  to  get  that  profit  which  is  the  most  high 
god  of  our  civilization.  A  few  of  the  youngest  and 
most  spirited  girls — those  from  families  containing 
several  workers — indignantly  quit.  A  few  others  mur 
mured,  but  stayed  on.  The  mass  dumbly  accepted  the 
extra  twist  in  the  screw  of  the  mighty  press  that  was 
slowly  squeezing  them  to  death.  Neither  to  them  nor 
to  Susan  herself  did  it  happen  to  occur  that  she  was 
the  cause  of  the  general  increase  of  hardship  and  mis 
ery.  However,  to  have  blamed  her  would  have  been  as 
foolish  and  as  unjust  as  to  blame  any  other  individual. 
The  system  ordained  it  all.  Oppression  and  oppressed 
were  both  equally  its  helpless  instruments.  No  wonder 
all  the  vast  beneficent  discoveries  of  science  that  ought 
to  have  made  the  whole  human  race  healthy,  long-lived 
and  prosperous,  are  barely  able  to  save  the  race  from 
swift  decay  and  destruction  under  the  ravages  of  this 
modern  system  of  labor  worse  than  slavery — for  under 
slavery  the  slave,  being  property  whose  loss  could  not 

62 


SUSAN   LENOX 


be  made  good  without  expense,  was  protected  in  life 
and  in  health. 

Susan  soon  discovered  that  she  had  miscalculated 
her  earning  power.  She  had  been  deceived  by  her  swift 
ness  in  the  first  days,  before  the  monotony  of  her  task 
had  begun  to  wear  her  down.  Her  first  week's  earnings 
were  only  four  dollars  and  thirty  cents.  This  in  her 
freshness,  and  in  the  busiest  season  when  wages  were 
at  the  highest  point. 

In  the  room  next  hers — the  same,  perhaps  a  little 
dingier — lived  a  man.  Like  herself  he  had  no  trade — 
that  is,  none  protected  by  a  powerful  union  and  by  the 
still  more  powerful — in  fact,  the  only  powerful  shield — 
requirements  of  health  and  strength  and  a  certain 
grade  of  intelligence  that  together  act  rigidly  to  ex 
clude  most  men  and  so  to  keep  wages  from  dropping 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  line  of  pauperism.  He  was 
the  most  industrious  and,  in  his  small  way,  the  most 
resourceful  of  men.  He  was  insurance  agent,  toilet 
soap  agent,  piano  tuner,  giver  of  piano  lessons,  seller 
of  pianos  and  of  music  on  commission.  He  worked 
fourteen  and  sixteen  hours  a  day.  He  made  nominally 
about  twelve  to  fifteen  a  week.  Actually — because  of 
the  poverty  of  his  customers  and  his  too  sympathetic 
nature — he  made  five  to  six  a  week — the  most  any 
working  person  could  hope  for  unless  in  one  of  the 
few  favored  trades.  Barely  enough  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together.  And  why  should  capital  that  needs  so 
much  for  fine  houses  and  wines  and  servants  and  auto 
mobiles  and  culture  and  charity  and  the  other  luxuries 
— why  should  capital  pay  more  when  so  many  were 
competing  for  the  privilege  of  being  allowed  to  work? 

She  gave  up  her  room  at  Mrs.  Tucker's — after  she 
had  spent  several  evenings  walking  the  streets  and  ob- 

63 


SUSAN  LENOX 


serving  and  thinking  about  the  miseries  of  the  fast 
women  of  the  only  class  she  could  hope  to  enter.  "A 
woman,"  she  decided,  "can't  even  earn  a  decent  living 
that  way  unless  she  has  the  money  to  make  the  right 
sort  of  a  start.  'To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given; 
from  him  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken  away  even  that 
which  he  hath.'  Gideon  was  my  chance — and  I  threw 
^  it  away." 

Still,  she  did  not  regret.  Of  all  the  horrors  the 
most  repellent  seemed  to  her  to  be  dependence  upon 
some  one  man  who  could  take  it  away  at  his  whim. 

She  disregarded  the  advice  of  the  other  girls  and 
made  the  rounds  of  the  religious  and  charitable  homes 
for  working  girls.  She  believed  she  could  endure  per 
haps  better  than  could  girls  with  more  false  pride,  with 
more  awe  of  snobbish  conventionalities — at  least  she 
could  try  to  endure — the  superciliousness,  the  patroni 
zing  airs,  the  petty  restraints  and  oppressions,  the 
nauseating  smugness,  the  constant  prying  and  peeping, 
the  hypocritical  lectures,  the  heavy  doses  of  smug 
morality.  She  felt  that  she  could  bear  with  almost 
any  annoyances  and  humiliations  to  be  in  clean  sur 
roundings  and  to  get  food  that  was  at  least  not  so 
rotten  that  the  eye  could  see  it  and  the  nose  smell  it. 
But  she  found  all  the  homes  full,  with  long  waiting 
lists,  filled  for  the  most  part,  so  the  working  girls  said, 
with  professional  objects  of  charity.  Thus  she  had 
no  opportunity  to  judge  for  herself  whether  there  was 
any  truth  in  the  prejudice  of  the  girls  against  these 
few  and  feeble  attempts  to  mitigate  the  miseries  of  a 
vast  and  ever  vaster  multitude  of  girls.  Adding  to 
gether  all  the  accommodations  offered  by  all  the  homes 
of  every  description,  there  was  a  total  that  might  pos 
sibly  have  provided  for  the  homeless  girls  of  a  dozen 

64 


SUSAN  LENOX 


factories  or  sweatshops — and  the  number  of  homeless 
girls  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million,  was  in 
creasing  at  the  rate  of  more  than  a  hundred  a  day. 

Charity  is  so  trifling  a  force  that  it  can,  and  should 
be,  disregarded.  It  serves  no  good  useful  service.  It 
enables  comfortable  people  to  delude  themselves  that 
all  that  can  be  done  is  being  done  to  mitigate  the  mis 
fortunes  which  the  poor  bring  upon  themselves.  It 
obscures  the  truth  that  modern  civilization  has  been 
perverted  into  a  huge  manufacturing  of  decrepitude 
and  disease,  of  poverty  and  prostitution.  The  reason 
we  talk  so  much  and  listen  so  eagerly  when  our  magnifi 
cent  benevolences  are  the  subject  is  that  we  do  not 
wish  to  be  disturbed — and  that  we  dearly  love  the 
tickling  sensation  in  our  vanity  of  generosity. 

Susan  was  compelled  to  the  common  lot — the  lot  that 
will  be  the  common  lot  as  long  as  there  are  people  to 
be  made,  by  taking  advantage  of  human  necessities,  to 
force  men  and  women  and  children  to  degrade  them 
selves  into  machines  as  wage-slaves.  At  two  dollars 
a  week,  double  what  her  income  justified — she  rented 
a  room  in  a  tenement  flat  in  Bleecker  street.  It  was  a 
closet  of  a  room  whose  thin,  dirt-adorned  walls  were 
no  protection  against  sound  or  vermin,  not  giving  even 
privacy  from  prying  eyes.  She  might  have  done  a 
little  better  had  she  been  willing  to  share  room  and 
bed  with  one  or  more  girls,  but  not  enough  better  to 
compensate  for  what  that  would  have  meant. 

The  young  Jew  with  the  nose  so  impossible  that  it 
elevated  his  countenance  from  commonplace  ugliness  to 
weird  distinction  had  taken  a  friendly  fancy  to  her. 
He  was  Julius  Bam,  nephew  of  the  proprietor.  In  her 
third  week  he  offered  her  the  forewoman's  place. 
"You've  got  a  few  brains  in  your  head,"  said  he.  "Miss 

65 


SUSA'N   LENOX 


Tuohy's  a  boob.  Take  the  job  and  you'll  push  up. 
We'll  start  you  at  five  per." 

Susan  thanked  him  but  declined.  "What's  the  use 
of  my  taking  a  job  I  couldn't  keep  more  than  a  day 
or  two?"  explained  she.  "I  haven't  it  in  me  to  boss 
people." 

"Then  you've  got  to  get  it,  or  you're  done  for," 
said  he.  "Nobody  ever  gets  anywhere  until  he's  making 
others  work  for  him." 

It  was  the  advice  she  had  got  from  Matson,  the  paper 
box  manufacturer  in  Cincinnati.  It  was  the  lesson  she 
found  in  all  prosperity  on  every  hand.  Make  others 
work  for  you — and  the  harder  you  made  them  work 
the  more  prosperous  you  were — provided,  of  course, 
you  kept  all  or  nearly  all  the  profits  of  their  harder 
toil.  Obvious  common  sense.  But  how  could  she  goad 
these  unfortunates,  force  their  clumsy  fingers  to  move 
faster,  make  their  long  and  weary  day  longer  and 
wearier — with  nothing  for  them  as  the  result  but  duller 
brain,  clumsier  fingers,  more  wretched  bodies?  She 
realized  why  those  above  lost  all  patience  with  them, 
treated  them  with  contempt.  Only  as  one  of  them  could 
any  intelligent,  energetic  human  being  have  any  sym 
pathy  for  them,  stupid  and  incompetent  from  birth, 
made  ever  more  and  more  stupid  and  incapable  by  the 
degrading  lives  they  led.  She  could  scarcely  conceal 
her  repulsion  for  their  dirty  bodies,  their  stained  and 
rotting  clothing  saturated  with  stale  sweat,  their  coarse 
flesh  reeking  coarse  food  smells.  She  could  not  listen 
to  their  conversation,  so  vulgar,  so  inane.  Yet  she  felt 
herself — for  the  time — one  of  them,  and  her  heart  bled 
for  them.  And  while  she  knew  that  only  their  dullness 
of  wit  and  ignorance  kept  them  from  climbing  up  and 
stamping  and  trampling  full  as  savagely  and  cruelly  as 

66 


SUSAN  LENOX 


did  those  on  top,  still  the  fact  remained  that  they  were 
not  stamping  and  trampling. 

As  she  was  turning  in  some  work,  Miss  Tuohy  said 
abruptly :  "You  don't  belong  here.  You  ought  to  go 
back." 

Susan  started,  and  her  heart  beat  wildly.  She  was 
going  to  lose  her  job! 

The  forelady  saw,  and  instantly  understood.  "I 
don't  mean  that,"  she  said.  "You  can  stay  as  long  as 
you  like — as  long  as  your  health  lasts.  But  isn't  there 
somebody  somewhere — anybody — you  can  go  to  and 
ask  them  to  help  you  out  of  this?" 

"No — there's  no  one,"  said  she. 

"That  can't  be  true,"  insisted  the  forelady.  "Every 
body  has  somebody." 

To  confide  is  one  of  the  all  but  universal  longings — 
perhaps  needs — of  human  nature.  Susan's  honest,  sym 
pathetic  eyes,  her  look  and  her  habit  of  reticence,  were 
always  attracting  confidences  from  such  unexpected 
sources  as  hard,  forbidding  Miss  Tuohy.  Susan  was 
not  much  surprised  when  Miss  Tuohy  went  on  to 
say: 

"I  was  spoiled  when  I  was  still  a  kid — by  getting 
to  know  well  a  man  who  was  above  my  class.  I  had 
tastes  that  way,  and  he  appealed  to  them.  After 
him  I  couldn't  marry  the  sort  of  man  that 
wanted  me.  Then  my  looks  went — like  a  flash — it 
often  happens  that  way  with  us  Irish  girls.  But 
I  can  get  on.  I  know  how  to  deal  with  these 
people — and  you  never  could  learn.  You'd  treat  'em 
like  ladies  and  they'd  treat  you  as  e#sy  fruit.  Yes, 
I  get  along  all  right,  and  I'm  happy — away  from 
here." 

Susan's    sympathetic    glance    of    inquiry    gave    the 

67 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


necessary  encouragement.  "It's  a  baby,"  Miss  Tuohy 
explained — and  Susan  knew  it  was  for  the  baby's  sake 
that  this  good  heart  had  hardened  itself  to  the  dirty 
work  of  forelady.  Her  eyes  shifted  as  she  said,  "A 
child  of  my  sister's — dead  in  Ireland.  How  I  do  love 
that  baby " 

They  were  interrupted  and  it  so  happened  that 
the  confidence  was  never  resumed  and  finished.  But 
Miss  Tuohy  had  made  her  point  with  Susan — 
had  set  her  to  thinking  less  indefinitely.  "I  must 
take  hold!"  Susan  kept  saying  to  herself.  The 
phrase  was  always  echoing  in  her  brain.  But  how? 
— how?  And  to  that  question  she  could  find  no 
answer. 

Every  morning  she  bought  a  one-cent  paper  whose 
big  circulation  was  in  large  part  due  to  its  want 
ads — -its  daily  section  of  closely  printed  columns 
of  advertisements  of  help  wanted  and  situations 
wanted.  Susan  read  the  columns  diligently.  At 
first  they  acted  upon  her  like  an  intoxicant,  filling 
her  not  merely  with  hope  but  with  confident  belief 
that  soon  she  would  be  in  a  situation  where  the  pay 
was  good  and  the  work  agreeable,  or  at  least  not 
disagreeable.  But  after  a  few  weeks  she  ceased  from 
reading. 

Why?  Because  she  answered  the  advertisements, 
scores  of  them,  more  than  a  hundred,  before  she 
saw  through  the  trick  and  gave  up.  She  found 
that  throughout  New  York  all  the  attractive  or 
even  tolerable  places  were  filled  by  girls  helped 
by  their  families  or  in  other  ways,  girls  working 
at  less  than  living  wages  because  they  did  not  have 
to  rely  upon  their  wages  for  their  support.  And 
those  help  wanted  advertisements  were  simply  ap- 


SUSAN  LENOX 


peals  for  more  girls  of  that  sort — for  cheaper  girls; 
or  they  were  inserted  by  employment  agencies, 
masquerading  in  the  newspaper  as  employers  and 
lying  in  wait  to  swindle  working  girls  by  getting 
a  fee  in  exchange  for  a  false  promise  of  good 
work  at  high  wages ;  or  they  were  the  nets  flung 
out  by  crafty  employers  who  speeded  and  starved 
their  slaves,  and  wished  to  recruit  fresh  relays  to 
replace  those  that  had  quit  in  exhaustion  or  in  de 
spair. 

"Why  do  you  always  read  the  want  ads?"  she  said 
to  Lany  Ricardo,  who  spent  all  her  spare  time  at 
those  advertisements  in  two  papers  she  bought  and  one 
she  borrowed  every  day.  "Did  you  ever  get  anything 
good,  or  hear  of  anybody  that  did?" 

"Oh,  my,  no,"  replied  Lany  with  a  laugh.  "I  read 
for  the  same  reason  that  all  the  rest  do.  It's  a  kind 
of  dope.  You  read  and  then  you  dream  about  the 
places — how  grand  they  are  and  how  well  off  you'll  be. 
But  nobody'd  be  fool  enough  to  answer  one  of  'em 
unless  she  was  out  of  a  job  and  had  to  get  another 
and  didn't  care  how  rotten  it  was.  No,  it's  just  dope 
— like  buyin'  policy  numbers  or  lottery  tickets.  You 
know  you  won't  git  a  prize,  but  you  have  a  lot  of  fun 
dreaming  about  it." 

As  Susan  walked  up  and  down  at  the  lunch  hour, 
she  talked  with  workers,  both  men  and  women,  in  all 
sorts  of  employment.  Some  were  doing  a  little  better 
than  she;  others — the  most — were  worse  off  chiefly  be 
cause  her  education,  her  developed  intelligence,  enabled 
her  to  ward  off  savage  blows — such  as  illness  from 
rotten  food — -against  which  their  ignorance  made  them 
defenseless.  Whenever  she  heard  a  story  of  someone's 
getting  on,  how  grotesquely  different  it  was  from  the 

69 


SUSAN   LENOX 


stories  she  used  to  get  out  of  the  Sunday  school  library 
and  dream  over!  These  almost  actualities  of  getting 
on  had  nothing  in  them  about  honesty  and  virtue.  Ac 
cording  to  them  it  was  always  some  sort  of  meanness  or 
trickery;  and  the  particular  meanness  or  tricks  were, 
in  these  practical  schools  of  success  in  session  at  each 
lunch  hour,  related  in  detail  as  lessons  in  how  to  get 
on.  If  the  success  under  discussion  was  a  woman's,  it 
was  always  how  her  boss  or  employer  had  "got  stuck 
on  her"  and  had  given  her  an  easier  job  with  good  pay 
so  that  she  could  wear  clothes  more  agreeable  to  his 
eyes  and  to  his  touch.  Now  and  then  it  was  a  wonder 
ful  dazzling  success — some  girl  had  got  her  rich  em 
ployer  so  "dead  crazy"  about  her  that  he  had  taken 
her  away  from  work  altogether  and  had  set  her  up  in  a 
flat  with  a  servant  and  a  "swell  trap" ;  there  was  even 
talk  of  marriage. 

Was  it  true?  Were  the  Sunday  school  books 
through  and  through  lies — ridiculous,  misleading  lies, 
wicked  lies — wicked  because  they  hid  the  shameful  truth 
that  ought  to  be  proclaimed  from  the  housetops? 
Susan  was  not  sure.  Perhaps  envy  twisted  somewhat 
these  tales  of  rare  occasional  successes  told  by  the 
workers  to  each  other.  But  certain  it  was  that,  wher 
ever  she  had  the  opportunity  to  see  for  herself,  success 
came  only  by  hardness  of  heart,  by  tricks  and  cheats. 
Certain  it  was  also  that  the  general  belief  among  the 
workers  was  that  success  could  be  got  in  those  ways 
only — and  this  belief  made  the  falsehood,  if  it  was  a 
falsehood,  or  the  partial  truth,  if  it  was  a  twisted 
truth,  full  as  poisonous  as  if  it  had  been  true  through 
out.  Also,  if  the  thing  were  not  true,  how  came  it  that 
everyone  in  practical  life  believed  it  to  be  so — how 
came  it  that  everyone  who  talked  in  praise  of  honesty 

70 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  virtue  looked,  as  he  talked,  as  if  he  were  canting 
and  half  expected  to  be  laughed  at? 

All  about  her  as  badly  off  as  she,  or  worse  off.  Yet 
none  so  unhappy  as  she — not  even  the  worse  off.  In 
fact,  the  worse  off  as  the  better  off  were  not  so  deeply 
wretched.  Because  they  had  never  in  all  their  lives 
known  the  decencies  of  life — clean  lodgings,  clean  cloth 
ing,  food  fit  to  eat,  leisure  and  the  means  of  enjoying 
leisure.  And  Susan  had  known  all  these  things.  When 
she  realized  why  her  companions  in  misery,  so  feeble  in 
self-restraint,  were  able  to  endure  patiently  and  for 
the  most  part  even  cheerfully,  how  careful  she  was 
never  to  say  or  to  suggest  anything  that  might  put 
ideas  of  what  life  might  be,  of  what  it  was  for  the 
comfortable  few,  into  the  minds  of  these  girls  who 
never  had  known  and  could  only  be  made  wretched  by 
knowing!  How  fortunate  for  them,  she  thought,  that 
they  had  gone  to  schools  where  they  met  only  their 
own  kind !  How  fortunate  that  the  devouring  monster 
of  industry  had  snatched  them  away  from  school  before 
their  minds  had  been  awakened  to  the  realities  of  life! 
How  fortunate  that  their  imaginations  were  too  dull 
and  too  heavy  to  be  touched  by  the  sights  of  luxury 
they  saw  in  the  streets  or  by  what  they  read  in  the 
newspapers  and  in  the  cheap  novels !  To  them,  as  she 
soon  realized,  their  world  seemed  the  only  world,  and 
the  world  that  lived  in  comfort  seemed  a  vague  un 
reality,  as  must  seem  whatever  does  not  come  into  our 
own  experience. 

One  lunch  hour  an  apostle  of  discontent  preaching 
some  kind  of  politics  or  other  held  forth  on  the  corner 
above  the  shop.  Susan  paused  to  listen.  She  had 
heard  only  a  few  words  when  she  was  incensed  to  the 
depths  of  her  heart  against  him.  He  ought  to  be 

71 


SUSAN   LENOX 


stopped  by  the  police,  this  scoundrel  trying  to  make 
these  people  unhappy  by  awakening  them  to  the  misery 
and  degradation  of  their  lot !  He  looked  like  an  honest, 
earnest  man.  No  doubt  he  fancied  that  he  was  in  some 
way  doing  good.  These  people  who  were  always  trying 
to  do  the  poor  good — they  ought  all  to  be  suppressed ! 
If  someone  could  tell  them  how  to  cease  to  be  poor, 
that  would  indeed  be  good.  But  such  a  thing  would 
be  impossible.  In  Sutherland,  where  the  best  off  hadn't 
so  painfully  much  more  than  the  worst  off,  and  where 
everybody  but  the  idle  and  the  drunken,  and  even  they 
most  of  the  time,  had  enough  to  eat,  and  a  decent  place 
to  sleep,  and  some  kind  of  Sunday  clothes — in  Suther 
land  the  poverty  was  less  than  in  Cincinnati,  infinitely 
less  than  in  this  vast  and  incredibly  rich  New  York 
where  in  certain  districts  wealth,  enormous  wealth,  was 
piled  up  and  up.  So  evidently  the  presence  of  riches 
did  not  help  poverty  but  seemed  to  increase  it.  No, 
the  disease  was  miserable,  thought  Susan.  For  most 
of  the  human  race,  disease  and  bad  food  and  vile  beds 
in  dingy  holes  and  days  of  fierce,  poorly  paid  toil — that 
was  the  law  of  this  hell  of  a  world.  And  to  escape  from 
that  hideous  tyranny,  you  must  be  hard,  you  must 
trample,  you  must  rob,  you  must  cease  to  be  human. 

The  apostle  of  discontent  insisted  that  the  law  could 
be  changed,  that  the  tyranny  could  be  abolished.  She 
listened,  but  he  did  not  convince  her.  He  sounded 
vague  and  dreamy — as  fantastically  false  in  his  new 
way  as  she  had  found  the  Sunday  school  books  to  be. 
She  passed  on. 

She  continued  to  pay  out  a  cent  each  day  for  the 
newspaper.  She  no  longer  bothered  with  the  want  ads. 
Pipe  dreaming  did  not  attract  her ;  she  was  too  fiercely 
bent  upon  escape,  actual  escape,  to  waste  time  in 

72 


SUSAN  LENOX 


dreaming  of  ways  of  escape  that  she  never  could  realize. 
She  read  the  paper  because,  if  she  could  not  live  in  the 
world  but  was  battered  down  in  its  dark  and  foul  and 
crowded  cellar,  she  at  least  wished  to  know  what  was 
going  on  up  in  the  light  and  air.  She  found  every  day 
news  of  great  doings,  of  wonderful  rises,  of  rich  re 
wards  for  industry  and  thrift,  of  abounding  prosperity 
and  of  opportunity  fairly  forcing  itself  into  acceptance. 
But  all  this  applied  only  to  the  few  so  strangely  and 
so  luckily  chosen,  while  the  mass  was  rejected.  For 
that  mass,  from  earliest  childhood  until  death,  there 
was  only  toil  in  squalor — squalid  food,  squalid  clothing, 
squalid  shelter.  And  when  she  read  one  day — in  an 
obscure  paragraph  in  her  newspaper — that  the  income 
of  the  average  American  family  was  less  than  twelve 
dollars  a  week — less  than  two  dollars  and  a  half  a 
week  for  each  individual — she  realized  that  what  she 
was  seeing  and  living  was  not  New  York  and  Cincin 
nati,  but  was  the  common  lot,  country  wide,  no  doubt 
world  wide. 

"Must  take  hold !"  her  mind  cried  incessantly  to  her 
shrinking  heart.  "Somehow — anyhow — take  hold! — 
must — must — must!" 

Those  tenement  houses !  Those  tenement  streets ! 
Everywhere  wandering  through  the  crowds  the  lonely 
old  women — holding  up  to  the  girls  the  mirror  of  time 
and  saying:  "Look  at  my  misery!  Look  at  my  dis 
ease-blasted  body.  Look  at  my  toil-bent  form  and 
toil-wrecked  hands.  Look  at  my  masses  of  wrinkles, 
at  my  rags,  at  my  leaky  and  rotten  shoes.  Think  of 
my  aloneness — not  a  friend — feared  and  cast  off  by 
my  relatives  because  they  are  afraid  they  will  have  to 
give  me  food  and  lodgings.  Look  at  me — think  of  my 
life — and  know  that  I  am  you  as  you  will  be  a  few  years 

73 


SUSAN  LENOX 


from  now  whether  you  work  as  a  slave  to  the  machine 
or  as  a  slave  to  the  passions  of  one  or  of  many  men. 
I  am  you.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  thousand  escape  my 
fate — except  by  death." 

"Somehow — anyhow — I  must  take  hold,"  cried  Susan 
to  her  swooning  heart. 

When  her  capital  had  dwindled  to  three  dollars  Mrs. 
Tucker  appeared.  Her  face  was  so  beaming  bright 
that  Susan,  despite  her  being  clad  in  garments  on  which 
a  pawnshop  would  advance  nothing,  fancied  she  had 
come  with  good  news. 

"Now  that  I'm  rid  of  that  there  house,"  said  she, 
"I'll  begin  to  perk  up.  I  ain't  got  nothing  left  to  worry 
me.  I'm  ready  for  whatever  blessings  the  dear  Master'll 
provide.  My  pastor  tells  me  I'm  the  finest  example  of 
Christian  fortitude  he  ever  saw.  But" — and  Mrs. 
Tucker  spoke  with  genuine  modesty — "I  tell  him  I 
don't  deserve  no  credit  for  leaning  on  the  Lord.  If  I 
can  trust  Him  in  death,  why  not  in  life?" 

"You've  got  a  place?    The  church  has " 

"Bless  you,  no,"  cried  Mrs.  Tucker.  "Would  I  bur 
den  'em  with  myself,  when  there's  so  many  that  has  to 
be  looked  after?  No,  I  go  direct  to  the  Lord." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  What  place  have  you 
got?" 

"None  as  yet.  But  He'll  provide  something — some 
thing  better'n  I  deserve." 

Susan  had  to  turn  away,  to  hide  her  pity — and  her 
disappointment.  Not  only  was  she  not  to  be  helped, 
but  also  she  must  help  another.  "You  might  get  a 
job  at  the  hat  factory,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Tucker  was  delighted.  "I  knew  it!"  she  cried. 
"Don't  you  see  how  He  looks  after  me?" 

Susan  persuaded  Miss  Tuohy  to  take  Mrs.  Tucker 
74 


SUSAN   LENOX 


on.  She  could  truthfully  recommend  the  old  woman 
as  a  hard  worker.  They  moved  into  a  room  in  a  tene 
ment  in  South  Fifth  Avenue.  Susan  read  in  the  paper 
about  a  model  tenement  and  went  to  try  for  what  was 
described  as  real  luxury  in  comfort  and  cleanliness. 
She  found  that  sort  of  tenements  filled  with  middle-class 
families  on  their  way  down  in  the  world  and  making 
their  last  stand  against  rising  rents  and  rising  prices. 
The  model  tenement  rents  were  far,  far  beyond  her 
ability  to  pay.  She  might  as  well  think  of  moving  to 
the  Waldorf.  She  and  Mrs.  Tucker  had  to  be  content 
with  a  dark  room  on  the  fifth  floor,  opening  on  a  damp 
air  shaft  whose  odor  was  so  foul  that  in  comparison  the 
Clinton  Place  shaft  was  as  the  pure  breath  of  the  open 
sky.  For  this  shelter — more  than  one-half  the  free 
and  proud  citizens  of  prosperous  America  dwelling  in 
cities  occupy  its  like,  or  worse — they  paid  three  dollars 
a  week — a  dollar  and  a  half  apiece.  They  washed  their 
underclothing  at  night,  slept  while  it  was  drying.  And 
Susan,  who  could  not  bring  herself  to  imitate  the  other 
girls  and  wear  a  blouse  of  dark  color  that  was  not  to 
be  washed,  rose  at  four  to  do  the  necessary  ironing. 
They  did  their  own  cooking.  It  was  no  longer  possible 
for  Susan  to  buy  quality  and  content  herself  with  small 
quantity.  However  small  the  quantity  of  food  she 
could  get  along  on,  it  must  be  of  poor  quality — for 
good  quality  was  beyond  her  means. 

It  maddened  her  to  see  the  better  class  of  working 
girls.  Their  fairly  good  clothing,  their  evidences  of 
some  comfort  at  home,  seemed  to  mock  at  her  as  a 
poor  fool  who  was  being  beaten  down  because  she  had 
not  wit  enough  to  get  on.  She  knew  these  girls  were 
either  supporting  themselves  in  part  by  prostitution 
or  were  held  up  by  their  families,  by  the  pooling  of 

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SUSAN   LENOX 


the  earnings  of  several  persons.  Left  to  themselves, 
to  their  own  earnings  at  work,  they  would  be  no  better 
off  than  she,  or  at  best  so  little  better  off  that  the 
difference  was  unimportant. ,  If  to  live  decently  in 
New  York  took  an  income  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week, 
what  did  it  matter  whether  one  got  five  or  ten  or  twelve? 
Any  wages  below  fifteen  meant  a  steady  downward  drag 
— meant  exposure  to  the  dirt  and  poison  of  poverty 
tenements — meant  the  steady  decline  of  the  power  of 
resistance,  the  steady  oozing  away  of  self-respect,  of 
the  courage  and  hope  that  give  the  power  to  rise.  To 
have  less  than  the  fifteen  dollars  absolutely  necessary 
for  decent  surroundings,  decent  clothing,  decent  food 
— that  meant  one  was  drowning.  What  matter  whether 
the  death  of  the  soul  was  quick,  or  slow,  whether  the 
waters  of  destruction  were  twenty  feet  deep  or  twenty 
thousand? 

Mrs.  Reardon,  the  servant  woman  on  the  top  floor, 
was  evicted  and  Susan  and  Mrs.  Tucker  took  her  in. 
She  protested  that  she  could  sleep  on  the  floor,  that  she 
had  done  so  a  large  part  of  her  life — that  she  preferred 
it  to  most  beds.  But  Susan  made  her  up  a  kind  of 
bed  in  the  corner.  They  would  not  let  her  pay  any 
thing.  She  had  rheumatism  horribly,  some  kind  of 
lung  trouble,  and  the  almost  universal  and  repulsive 
catarrh  that  preys  upon  working  people.  Her  hair 
had  dwindled  to  a  meager  wisp.  This  she  wound  into 
a  hard  little  knot  and  fastened  with  an  imitation  tor 
toise-shell  comb,  huge,  high,  and  broken,  set  with  large 
pieces  of  glass  cut  like  diamonds.  Her  teeth  were  all 
gone  and  her  cheeks  almost  met  in  her  mouth. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Tucker  and  Mrs.  Reardon  were 
exchanging  eulogies  upon  the  goodness  of  God  to  them, 
Susan  shocked  them  by  harshly  ordering  them  to  be 

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SUSAN   LENOX 


silent.  "If  God  hears  you,"  she  said,  "He'll  think 
you're  mocking  Him.  Anyhow,  I  can't  stand  any  more 
of  it.  Hereafter  do  your  talking1  of  that  kind  when 
I'm  not  here." 

Another  day  Mrs.  Reardon  told  about  her  sister. 
The  sister  had  worked  in  a  factory  where  some  sort 
of  poison  that  had  a  rotting  effect  on  the  human  body 
was  used  in  the  manufacture.  Like  a  series  of  others 
the  sister  caught  the  disease.  But  instead  of  rotting 
out  a  spot,  a  few  fingers,  or  part  of  the  face,  it  had 
eaten  away  the  whole  of  her  lower  jaw  so  that  she  had 
to  prepare  her  food  for  swallowing  by  first  pressing  it 
with  her  fingers  against  her  upper  teeth.  Used  as 
Susan  was  to  hearing  horrors  in  this  region  where  dis 
ease  and  accident  preyed  upon  every  family,  she  fled 
from  the  room  and  walked  shuddering  about  the  streets 
— the  streets  with  their  incessant  march  past  of 
blighted  and  blasted,  of  maimed  and  crippled  and  worm- 
eaten.  Until  that  day  Susan  had  been  about  as  unob 
servant  of  the  obvious  things  as  is  the  rest  of  the  race. 
On  that  day  she  for  the  first  time  noticed  the  crowd  in 
the  street,  with  mind  alert  to  signs  of  the  ravages  of 
accident  and  disease.  Hardly  a  sound  body,  hardly 
one  that  was  not  piteously  and  hideously  marked. 

When  she  returned — and  she  did  not  stay  out  long — 
Mrs.  Tucker  was  alone.  Said  she: 

"Mrs.  Reardon  says  the  rotten  jaw  was  sent  on  her 
sister  as  a  punishment  for  marrying  a  Protestant,  she 
being  a  Catholic.  How  ignorant  some  people  is !  Of 
course,  the  good  Lord  sent  the  judgment  on  her  for 
being  a  Catholic  at  all." 

"Mrs.  Tucker,"  said  Susan,  "did  you  ever  hear  of 
Nero?" 

"He  burned  up  Rome — and  he  burned  up  the  Chris- 
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SUSAN  LENOX 


tian  martyrs,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  "I  had  a  good 
schooling.  Besides,  sermons  is  highly  educating." 

"Well,"  said  Susan,  "if  I  had  a  choice  of  living 
under  Nero  or  of  living  under  that  God  you  and  Mrs. 
Reardon  talk  about,  I'd  take  Nero  and  be  thankful  and 
happy." 

Mrs.  Tucker  would  have  fled  if  she  could  have  af 
forded  it.  As  it  was  all  she  ventured  was  a  sigh  and 
lips  moving  in  prayer. 

On  a  Friday  in  late  October,  at  the  lunch  hour, 
Susan  was  walking  up  and  down  the  sunny  side  of 
Broadway.  It  was  the  first  distinctly  cool  day  of  the 
autumn;  there  had  been  a  heavy  downpour  of  rain  all 
morning,  but  the  New  York  sun  that  is  ever  struggling 
to  shine  and  is  successful  on  all  but  an  occasional  day 
was  tearing  up  and  scattering  the  clouds  with  the  aid 
of  a  sharp  north  wind  blowing  down  the  deep  canyon. 
She  was  wearing  her  summer  dress  still — old  and  dingy 
but  clean.  That  look  of  neatness  about  the  feet — that 
charm  of  a  well-shaped  foot  and  a  well-turned  ankle 
properly  set  off — had  disappeared — with  her  the  surest 
sign  of  the  extreme  of  desperate  poverty.  Her  shoes 
were  much  scuffed,  were  even  slightly  down  at  the  heel ; 
her  sailor  hat  would  have  looked  only  the  worse  had  it 
had  a  fresh  ribbon  on  its  crown.  This  first  hint  of 
winter  had  stung  her  fast  numbing  faculties  into  un 
usual  activity.  She  was  remembering  the  misery  of  the 
cold  in  Cincinnati — the  misery  that  had  driven  her  into 
prostitution  as  a  drunken  driver's  lash  makes  the  fren 
zied  horse  rush  he  cares  not  where  in  his  desire  to 
escape.  This  wind  of  Broadway — this  first  warning  of 
winter — it  was  hissing  in  her  ears :  "Take  hold !  Win 
ter  is  coming !  Take  hold !" 

Summer  and  winter — fiery  heat  and  brutal  cold. 
78 


SUSAN   LENOX 


Like  the  devils  in  the  poem,  the  poor — the  masses,  all 
but  a  few  of  the  human  race — were  hurried  from  fire 
to  ice,  to  vary  their  torment  and  to  make  it  always 
exquisite. 

To  shelter  herself  for  a  moment  she  paused  at  a  spot 
that  happened  to  be  protected  to  the  south  by  a  pro 
jecting  sidewalk  sign.  She  was  facing,  with  only  a 
tantalizing  sheet  of  glass  between,  a  display  of  winter 
underclothes  on  wax  figures.  To  show  them  off  more 
effectively  the  sides  and  the  back  of  the  window  were 
mirrors.  Susan's  gaze  traveled  past  the  figures  to  a 
person  she  saw  standing  at  full  length  before  her. 
"Who  is  that  pale,  stooped  girl?"  she  thought,  "How 
dreary  and  sad  she  looks !  How  hard  she  is  fighting  to 
make  her  clothes  look  decent,  when  they  aren't!  She 
must  be  something  like  me — only  much  worse  off."  And 
then  she  realized  that  she  was  gazing  at  her  own  image, 
was  pitying  her  own  self.  The  room  she  and  Mrs. 
Tucker  and  the  old  scrubwoman  occupied  was  so  dark, 
even  with  its  one  little  gas  jet  lighted,  that  she  was  able 
to  get  only  a  faint  look  at  herself  in  the  little  cracked 
and  water-marked  mirror  over  its  filthy  washstand — 
filthy  because  the  dirt  was  so  ground  in  that  only 
floods  of  water  and  bars  of  soap  could  have  cleaned 
down  to  its  original  surface.  She  was  having  a  clear 
look  at  herself  for  the  first  time  in  three  months. 

She  shrank  in  horror,  yet  gazed  on  fascinated.  Why, 
her  physical  charm  had  gone — gone,  leaving  hardly  a 
trace!  Those  dull,  hollow  eyes — that  thin  and  almost 
ghastly  face — the  emaciated  form — the  once  attratcive 
hair  now  looking  poor  and  stringy  because  it  could  not 
be  washed  properly — above  all,  the  sad,  bitter  expres 
sion  about  the  mouth.  Those  pale  lips !  Her  lips  had 
been  from  childhood  one  of  her  conspicuous  and  most 

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SUSAN   LENOX 


tempting  beauties;  and  as  the  sex  side  of  her  nature 
had  developed  they  had  bloomed  into  wonderful  fresh 
ness  and  vividness  of  form  and  color.  Now 

Those  pale,  pale  lips !  They  seemed  to  form  a  sort 
of  climax  of  tragedy  to  the  melancholy  of  her  face. 
She  gazed  on  and  on.  She  noted  every  detail.  How 
she  had  fallen!  Indeed,  a  fallen  woman!  These  others 
had  been  born  to  the  conditions  that  were  destroying 
her;  they  were  no  worse  off,  in  many  cases  better  off. 
But  she,  born  to  comfort  and  custom  of  intelligent 
educated  associations  and  associates 

A  fallen  woman! 

Honest  work !  Even  if  it  were  true  that  this  honest 
work  was  a  sort  of  probation  through  which  one  rose 
to  better  things — even  if  this  were  true,  could  it  be 
denied  that  only  a  few  at  best  could  rise,  that  the  most 
— including  all  the  sensitive,  and  most  of  the  children — 
must  wallow  on,  must  perish?  Oh,  the  lies,  the  lies 
about  honest  work ! 

Rosa  Mohr,  a  girl  of  her  own  age  who  worked  in  the 
same  room,  joined  her.  "Admiring  yourself?"  she  said 
laughing.  "Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  You  are  pretty." 

Susan  at  first  thought  Rosa  was  mocking  her.  But 
the  tone  and  expression  were  sincere. 

"It  won't  last  long,"  Rosa  went  on.  "I  wasn't  so 
bad  myself  when  I  quit  the  high  school  and  took  a  job 
because  father  lost  his  business  and  his  health.  He 
got  in  the  way  of  one  of  those  trusts.  So  of  course 
they  handed  it  to  him  good  and  hard.  But  he  wasn't 
a  squealer.  He  always  said  they'd  done  only  what  he'd 
been  doing  himself  if  he'd  had  the  chance.  I  always 
think  of  what  papa  used  to  say  when  I  hear  people 
carrying  on  about  how  wicked  this  or  that  somebody 
else  is." 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


"Are  you  going  to  stay  on — at  this  life?"  asked 
Susan,  still  looking  at  her  own  image. 

"I  guess  so.  What  else  is  there?  .  .  .  I've  got  a 
steady.  We'll  get  married  as  soon  as  he  has  a  raise 
to  twelve  per.  But  I'll  not  be  any  better  off.  My 
beau's  too  stupid  ever  to  make  much.  If  you  see  me 
ten  years  from  now  I'll  probably  be  a  fat,  sloppy  old 
thing,  warming  a  window  sill  or  slouching  about  in 
dirty  rags." 

"Isn't  there  any  way  to — to  escape?" 

"It  does  look  as  though  there  ought  to  be — doesn't 
it?  But  I've  thought  and  thought,  and  /  can't  see  it 
— and  I'm  pretty  near  straight  Jew.  They  say  things 
are  better  than  they  used  to  be,  and  I  guess  they  are. 
But  not  enough  better  to  help  me  any.  Perhaps  my 
children — if  I'm  fool  enough  to  have  any — perhaps 
they'll  get  a  chance.  .  .  .  But  I  wouldn't  gamble 
on  it." 

Susan  was  still  looking  at  her  rags — &t  her  pale 
lips — was  avoiding  meeting  her  own  eyes.  "Why  not 
try  the  streets?" 

"Nothing  in  it,"  said  Rosa,  practically. 

The  two  girls  stood  facing  each  other,  each  looking 
past  the  other  into  the  wind-swept  canyon  of  Broad 
way — the  majestic  vista  of  lofty  buildings,  symbols 
of  wealth  and  luxury  so  abundant  that  it  flaunted 
itself,  overflowed  in  gaudy  extravagance.  Finally 
Susan  said: 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  killing  yourself?" 

"I  thought  I  would,"  replied  the  other  girl.  "But 
I  guess  I  wouldn't  have.  Everybody  knows  there's 
no  hope,  yet  they  keep  on  hopin'.  And  I've  got 
pretty  good  health  yet,  and  once  in  a  while  I  have 
some  fun.  You  ought  to  go  to  dances — and  drink. 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


You  wouldn't  be  blue  all  the  time,  then." 

"If  it  wasn't  for  the  sun,"  said  Susan. 

"The  sun?"  inquired  Rosa. 

"Where  I  came  from,"  explained  Susan,  "it  rained 
a  great  deal,  and  the  sky  was  covered  so  much  of  the 
time.  But  here  in  New  York  there  is  so  much  sun. 
I  love  the  sun.  I  get  desperate — then  out  comes  the 
sun,  and  I  say  to  myself,  'Well,  I  guess  I  can  go  011 
a  while  longer,  with  the  sun  to  help  me.' ' 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  said  Rosa,  "but  the  sun 
is  a  help." 

That  indefatigable  New  York  sun !  It  was  like 
Susan's  own  courage.  It  fought  the  clouds  whenever 
clouds  dared  to  appear  and  contest  its  right  to  shine 
upon  the  City  of  the  Sun,  and  hardly  a  day  was  so 
stormy  that  for  a  moment  at  least  the  sun  did  not 
burst  through  for  a  look  at  its  beloved. 

For  weeks  Susan  had  eaten  almost  nothing.  Dur 
ing  her  previous  sojourn  in  the  slums — the  slums 
of  Cincinnati,  though  they  were  not  classed  as 
slums — the  food  had  seemed  revolting.  But  she 
was  less  discriminating  then.  The  only  food  she 
could  afford  now — the  food  that  is  the  best  obtain 
able  for  a  nlajority  of  the  inhabitants  of  any  city 
— was  simply  impossible  for  her.  She  ate  only 
when  she  could  endure  no  longer.  This  starvation 
no  doubt  saved  her  from  illness ;  but  at  the  same 
time  it  drained  her  strength.  Her  vitality  had  been 
going  down,  a  little  each  day — lower  and  lower. 
The  poverty  which  had  infuriated  her  at  first  was 
now  acting  upon  her  like  a  soothing  poison.  The 
reason  she  had  not  risen  to  revolt  was  this  slow  and 
subtle  poison  that  explains  the  inertia  of  the  tene 
ment  poor  from  babyhood.  To  be  spirited  one  must 

32 


SUSAN  LENOX 


have  health  or  a  nervous  system  diseased  in  some 
of  the  ways  that  cause  constant  irritation.  The  dis 
ease  called  poverty  is  not  an  irritant,  but  an  anes 
thetic.  If  Susan  had  been  born  to  that  life,  her 
naturally  vivacious  temperament  would  have  made 
her  gay  in  unconscious  wretchedness ;  as  it  was,  she 
knew  her  own  misery  and  suffered  from  it  keenly — •  / 
at  times  hideously — yet  was  rapidly  losing  the  power 
to  revolt. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  wind — yes,  it  must  have  been 
the  wind  with  its  threat  of  winter — that  roused  her 
sluggish  blood,  that  whipped  thought  into  action. 
Anything — anything  would  be  right,  if  it  promised 
escape.  Right — wrong!  Hypocritical  words  for  com 
fortable  people ! 

That  Friday  night,  after  her  supper  of  f  half- 
cooked  corn  meal  and  tea,  she  went  instantly  to  work 
at  washing  out  clothes.  Mrs.  Tucker  spent  the 
evening  gossiping  with  the  janitress,  came  in  about 
midnight.  As  usual  she  was  full  to  the  brim  with 
news  of  misery — of  jobs  lost,  abandoned  wives,  of 
abused  children,  of  poisoning  from  rotten  "fresh" 
food  or  from  "embalmed"  stuff  in  cans,  of  sick 
ness  and  yet  more  sickness,  of  maiming  accidents, 
of  death — news  that  is  the  commonplace  of  tene 
ment  life.  She  loved  to  tell  these  tales  with  all  the 
harrowing  particulars  and  to  find  in  each  some  evi 
dence  of  the  goodness  of  God  to  herself.  Often 
Susan  could  let  her  run  on  and  on  without  listen 
ing.  But  not  that  night.  She  resisted  the  impulse 
to  bid  her  be  silent,  left  the  room  and  stood  at  the 
hall  window.  When  she  returned  Mrs.  Tucker  was 
in  bed,  was  snoring  in  a  tranquility  that  was  the 
reverse  of  contagious.  With  her  habitual  cheerful- 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ness  she  had  adapted  herself  to  her  changed  con 
dition  without  fretting.  She  had  become  as  rugged 
and  as  dirty  as  her  neighbors ;  she  so  wrought  upon 
Susan's  sensibilities,  blunted  though  they  were,  that 
the  girl  would  have  been  unable  to  sleep  in  the 
same  bed  if  she  had  not  always  been  tired  to  exhaus 
tion  when  she  lay  down.  But  for  that  matter  only 
exhaustion  could  have  kept  her  asleep  in  that  vermin- 
infested  hole.  Even  the  fiercest  swarms  of  the  insects 
that  flew  or  ran  or  crawled  and  bit,  even  the  filthy 
mice  squeaking  as  they  played  upon  the  covers  or 
ran  over  the  faces  of  the  sleepers,  did  not  often 
rouse  her. 

While  Mrs.  Tucker  snored,  Susan  worked  on, 
getting  every  piece  of  at  all  fit  clothing  in  her 
meager  wardrobe  into  the  best  possible  condition. 
She  did  not  once  glance  at  the  face  of  the 
noisy  sleeper — a  face  homely  enough  in  Mrs.  Tuck 
er's  waking  hours,  hideous  now  with  the  mouth 
open  and  a  few  scattered  rotten  teeth  exposed  and 
the  dark  yellow-blue  of  the  unhealthy  gums  and 
tongue. 

At  dawn  Mrs.  Tucker  awoke  with  a  snort  and  a 
start.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  with  her  dirty  and  twisted 
and  wrinkled  fingers — the  nails  were  worn  and  broken, 
turned  up  as  if  warped  at  the  edges,  blackened  with 
dirt  and  bruisings.  "Why,  are  you  up  already?"  she 
said  to  Susan. 

"I've  not  been  to  bed,"  replied  the  girl. 

The  woman  stretched  herself,  sat  up,  thrust  her 
thick,  stockinged  legs  over  the  side  of  the  bed.  She 
slept  in  all  her  clothing  but  her  skirt,  waist,  and  shoes. 
She  kneeled  down  upon  the  bare,  sprung,  and  slanting 
floor,  said  a  prayer,  arose  with  a  beaming  face.  "It's 

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SUSAN   LENOX 


nice  and  warm  in  the  room.  How  I  do  dread  the 
winter,  the  cold  weather — though  no  doubt  we'll  make 
out  all  right!  Everything  always  does  turn  out  well 
for  me.  The  Lord  takes  care  of  me.  I  must  make  me 
a  cup  of  tea." 

"I've  made  it,"  said  Susan. 

The  tea  was  frightful  stuff — not  tea  at  all,  but 
cheap  adulterants  colored  poisonously.  Everything 
they  got  was  of  the  same  quality;  yet  the  prices  they 
paid  for  the  tiny  quantities  they  were  able  to  buy  at 
any  one  time  were  at  a  rate  that  would  have  bought  the 
finest  quality  at  the  most  expensive  grocery  in  New 
York. 

"Wonder  why  Mrs.  Reardon  don't  come?"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker.  Mrs.  Reardon  had  as  her  only  work  a  one- 
night  job  at  scrubbing.  "She  ought  to  have  come  an 
hour  ago." 

"Her  rheumatism  was  bad  when  she  started,"  said 
Susan.  "I  guess  she  worked  slow." 

When  Mrs.  Tucker  had  finished  her  second  cup  she 
put  on  her  shoes,  overskirt  and  waist,  made  a  few 
passes  at  her  hair.  She  was  ready  to  go  to  work. 

Susan  looked  at  her,  murmured:  "An  honest,  God 
fearing  working  woman!" 

"Huh?"  said  Mrs.  Tucker. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Susan  who  would  not  have  per 
mitted  her  to  hear.  It  would  be  cruel  to  put  such  ideas 
before  one  doomed  beyond  hope. 

Susan  was  utterly  tired,  but  even  the  strong  craving 
for  a  stimulant  could  not  draw  that  tea  past  her  lips. 
She  ate  a  piece  of  dry  bread,  washed  her  face,  neck, 
and  hands.  It  was  time  to  start  for  the  factory. 

That  day — Saturday — was  a  half-holiday.  Susan 
drew  her  week's  earnings — four  dollars  and  ten  cents — 

85 


SUSAN   LENOX 


and  came  home.  Mrs.  Tucker,  who  had  drawn — 
"thanks  to  the  Lord" — three  dollars  and  a  quarter, 
was  with  her.  The  janitress  halted  them  as  they  passed 
and  told  them  that  Mrs.  Reardon  was  dead.  She 
looked  like  another  scrubwoman,  living  down  the  street, 
who  was  known  always  to  carry  a  sum  of  money  in 
her  dress  pocket,  the  banks  being  untrustworthy.  Mrs. 
Reardon,  passing  along  in  the  dusk  of  the  early  morn 
ing,  had  been  hit  on  the  head  with  a  blackjack.  The 
one  blow  had  killed  her. 

Violence,  tragedy  of  all  kinds,  were  too  commonplace 
in  that  neighborhood  to  cause  more  than  a  slight  ripple. 
An  old  scrubwoman  would  have  had  to  die  in  some 
peculiarly  awful  way  to  receive  the  flattery  of  agitating 
an  agitated  street.  Mrs.  Reardon  had  died  what  was 
really  almost  a  natural  death.  So  the  faint  disturb 
ance  of  the  terrors  of  life  had  long  since  disappeared. 
The  body  was  at  the  Morgue,  of  course. 

"We'll  go  up,  right  away,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker. 

"I've  something  to  do  that  can't  be  put  off,"  re 
plied  Susan. 

"I  don't  like  for  anyone  as  young  as  you  to  be  so 
hard,"  reproached  Mrs.  Tucker. 

"Is  it  hard,"  said  Susan,  "to  see  that  death  isn't 
nearly  so  terrible  as  life?  She's  safe  and  at  peace. 
I've  got  to  live." 

Mrs.  Tucker,  eager  for  an  emotional  and  religious 
opportunity,  hastened  away.  Susan  went  at  her  ward 
robe — ironing,  darning,  fixing  buttonholes,  hooks  and 
eyes.  She  drew  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  tap  in  the 
hall  and  proceeded  to  wash  her  hair  with  soap;  she 
rinsed  it,  dried  it  as  well  as  she  could  with  their  one 
small,  thin  towel,  left  it  hanging  free  for  the  air  to 
finish  the  job. 

86 


SUSAN  LENOX 


It  had  rained  all  the  night  before — the  second  heavy 
rain  in  two  months.  But  at  dawn  the  rain  had  ceased, 
and  the  clouds  had  fled  before  the  sun  that  rules  almost 
undisputed  nine  months  of  the  year  and  wars  valiantly 
to  rule  the  other  three  months — not  altogether  in  vain. 
A  few  golden  strays  found  their  way  into  that  cave- 
like  room  and  had  been  helping  her  wonderfully.  She 
bathed  herself  and  scrubbed  herself  from  head  to  foot. 
She  manicured  her  nails,  got  her  hands  and  feet  into 
fairly  good  condition.  She  put  on  her  best  under 
clothes,  her  one  remaining  pair  of  undarned  stockings, 
the  pair  of  ties  she  had  been  saving  against  an  emerg 
ency.  And  once  more  she  had  the  charm  upon  which 
she  most  prided  herself — the  charm  of  an  attractive 
look  about  the  feet  and  ankles.  She  then  took  up  the 
dark-blue  hat  frame — one  of  a  lot  of  "seconds" — she 
had  bought  for  thirty-five  cents  at  a  bargain  sale, 
trimmed  it  with  a  broad  dark-blue  ribbon  for  which  she 
had  paid  sixty  cents.  She  was  well  pleased — and  justly 
so — with  the  result.  The  trimmed  hat  might  well  have 
cost  ten  or  fifteen  dollars — for  the  largest  part  of  the 
price  of  a  woman's  hat  is  usually  the  taste  of  the 
arrangement  of  the  trimming. 

By  this  time  her  hair  was  dry.  She  did  it  up  with 
a  care  she  had  not  had  time  to  give  it  in  many  a  week. 
She  put  on  the  dark-blue  serge  skirt  of  the  between- 
seasons  dress  she  had  brought  with  her  from  Forty- 
fourth  Street;  she  had  not  worn  it  at  all.  With  the 
feeble  aid  of  the  mirror  that  distorted  her  image  into 
grotesqueness,  she  put  on  her  hat  with  the  care  that 
important  detail  of  a  woman's  toilet  always  de 
serves. 

She  completed  her  toilet  with  her  one  good  and  un 
worn  blouse — plain  white,  the  yoke  gracefully  pointed 

87 


SUSAN   LENOX 


— and  with  a  blue  neck  piece  she  had  been  saving.  She 
made  a  bundle  of  all  her  clothing  that  was  fit  for  any 
thing — including  the  unworn  batiste  dress  Jeffries  and 
Jonas  had  given  her.  And  into  it  she  put  the  pistol  she 
had  brought  away  from  Forty-fourth  Street.  She 
made  a  separate  bundle  of  the  Jeffries  and  Jonas  hat 
with  its  valuable  plumes.  With  the  two  bundles  she  de 
scended  and  went  to  a  pawnshop  in  Houston  Street,  to 
which  she  had  made  several  visits. 

A  dirty-looking  man  with  a  short  beard  fluffy  and 
thick  like  a  yellow  hen's  tail  lurked  behind  the  counter 
in  the  dark  little  shop.  She  put  her  bundles  on  the 
counter,  opened  them.  "How  much  can  I  get  for  these 
things?"  she  asked. 

The  man  examined  every  piece  minutely.  "There's 
really  nothing  here  but  the  summer  dress  and  the  hat," 
said  he.  "And  they're  out  of  style.  I  can't  give  you 
more  than  four  dollars  for  the  lot — and  one  for  the 
pistol  which  is  good  but  old  style  now.  Five  dollars. 
How'll  you  have  it?" 

Susan  folded  the  things  and  tied  up  the  bundles. 
"Sorry  to  have  troubled  you,"  she  said,  taking  one  in 
either  hand. 

"How  much  did  you  expect  to  get,  lady?"  asked  the 
pawnbroker. 

"Twenty-five  dollars." 

He  laughed,  turned  toward  the  back  of  the  shop. 
As  she  reached  the  door  he  called  from  his  desk  at 
which  he  seemed  about  to  seat  himself,  "I  might  squeeze 
you  out  ten  dollars." 

"The  plumes  on  the  hat  will  sell  for  thirty  dollars," 
said  Susan.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  ostrich 
feathers  have  gone  up." 

The  man  slowly  advanced.  "I  hate  to  see  a  customer 
88 


SUSAN  LENOX 


go  away  unsatisfied,"  said  he.  "I'll  give  you  twenty 
dollars." 

"Not  a  cent  less  than  twenty-five.  At  the  next  place 
I'll  ask  thirty— and  get  it." 

"I  never  can  stand  out  against  a  lady.  Give  me  the 
stuff," 

Susan  put  it  on  the  counter  again.     Said  she: 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  trying  to  do  me.  You're 
right  to  try  to  buy  your  way  out  of  hell." 

The  pawnbroker  reflected,  could  not  understand  this 
subtlety,  went  behind  his  counter.  He  produced  a  key 
from  his  pocket,  unlocked  a  drawer  underneath  and 
took  out  a  large  tin  box.  With  another  key  from  an 
other  pocket  he  unlocked  this,  threw  back  the  lid 
revealing  a  disorder  of  papers.  From  the  depths  he 
fished  a  paper  bag.  This  contained  a  roll  of  bills.  He 
gave  Susan  a  twenty  and  a  five,  both  covered  with  dirt 
so  thickly  that  she  could  scarcely  make  out  the  denomi 
nations. 

"You'll  have  to  give  me  cleaner  money  than  this," 
said  she. 

"You  are  a  fine  lady,"  grumbled  he.  But  he  found 
cleaner  bills. 

She  turned  to  her  room.  At  sight  of  her  Mrs. 
Tucker  burst  out  laughing  with  delight.  "My,  but  you 
do  look  like  old  times!"  cried  she.  "How  neat  and 
tasty  you  are !  I  suppose  it's  no  need  to  ask  if  you're 
going  to  church?" 

"No,"  said  Susan.  "I've  got  nothing  to  give,  and  I 
don't  beg." 

"Well,  I  ain't  going  there  myself,  lately — somehow. 
They  got  so  they  weren't  very  cordial — or  maybe  it 
was  me  thinking  that  way  because  I  wasn't  dressed  up 
like.  Still  I  do  wish  you  was  more  religious.  But  you'll 

89 


SUSAN   LENOX 


come  to  it,  for  you're  naturally  a  good  girl.  And  when 
you  do,  the  Lord'll  give  you  a  more  contented  heart. 
Not  that  you  complain.  I  never  knew  anybody,  espe 
cially  a  young  person,  that  took  things  so  quiet.  .  .  . 
It  can't  be  you're  going  to  a  dance?" 

"No,"  said  Susan.  "I'm  going  to  leave — go  back 
uptown." 

Mrs.  Tucker  plumped  down  upon  the  bed.  "Leave 
for  good?"  she  gasped. 

"I've  got  Nelly  Lemayer  to  take  my  place  here,  if 
you  want  her,"  said  Susan.  "Here  is  my  share  of  the 
rent  for  next  week  and  half  a  dollar  for  the  extra  gas 
I've  burned  last  night  and  today." 

"And  Mrs.  Reardon  gone,  too !"  sobbed  Mrs.  Tucker, 
suddenly  remembering  the  old  scrubwoman  whom  both 
had  forgotten.  "And  up  to  that  there  Morgue  they 
wouldn't  let  me  see  her  except  where  the  light  was  so 
poor  that  I  couldn't  rightly  swear  it  was  her.  How 
brutal  everybody  is  to  the  poor!  If  they  didn't  have 
the  Lord,  what  would  become  of  them !  And  you  leav 
ing  me  all  alone !" 

The  sobs  rose  into  hysteria.  Susan  stood  impassive. 
She  had  seen  again  and  again  how  faint  the  breeze  that 
would  throw  those  shallow  waters  into  commotion  and 
how  soon  they  were  tranquil  again.  It  was  by  observ 
ing  Mrs.  Tucker  that  she  first  learned  an  important 
unrecognized  truth  about  human  nature — that  amiable, 
easily  sympathetic  and  habitually  good-humored  peo 
ple  are  invariably  hard  of  heart.  In  this  parting  she 
had  no  sense  of  loss,  none  of  the  melancholy  that  often 
oppresses  us  when  we  separate  from  someone  to  whom 
we  are  indifferent  yet  feel  bound  by  the  tie  of  mis 
fortunes  borne  together.  Mrs.  Tucker,  fallen  into  the 
habits  of  their  surroundings,  was  for  her  simply  part 

90 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  them.  And  she  was  glad  she  was  leaving  them — 
forever,  she  hoped.  Christian,  fleeing  the  City  of  De 
struction,  had  no  sterner  mandate  to  flight  than  her 
instinct  was  suddenly  urging  upon  her. 

When  Mrs.  Tucker  saw  that  her  tears  were  not  ap 
preciated,  she  decided  that  they  were  unnecessary.  She 
dried  her  eyes  and  said : 

"Anyhow,  I  reckon  Mrs.  Reardon's  taking-off  was  a 
mercy." 

"She's  better  dead,"  said  Susan.  She  had  abhorred 
the  old  woman,  even  as  she  pitied  and  sheltered  her. 
She  had  a  way  of  fawning  and  cringing  and  flattering 
— no  doubt  in  well  meaning  attempt  to  show  gratitude 
• — but  it  was  unendurable  to  Susan.  And  now  that  she 
was  dead  and  gone,  there  was  no  call  for  further 
pretenses. 

"You  ain't  going  right  away?"  said  Mrs.  Tucker. 

"Yes,"  said  Susan. 

"You  ought  to  stay  to  supper." 

Supper!  That  revolting  food!  "No,  I  must  go 
right  away,"  replied  Susan. 

"Well,  you'll  come  to  see  me.  And  maybe  you'll  be 
back  with  us.  You  might  go  farther  and  do  worse. 
On  my  way  from  the  morgue  I  dropped  in  to  see  a  lady 
friend  on  the  East  Side.  I  guess  the  good  Lord  has 
abandoned  the  East  Side,  there  being  nothing  there  but 
Catholics  and  Jews,  and  no  true  religion.  It's  dread 
ful  the  way  things  is  over  there — the  girls  are  taking 
to  the  streets  in  droves.  My  lady  friend  was  telling 
me  that  some  of  the  mothers  is  sending  their  little  girls 
out  streetwalking,  and  some's  even  taking  out  them 
that's  too  young  to  be  trusted  to  go  alone.  And  no 
money  in  it,  at  that.  And  food  and  clothing  prices 
going  up  and  up.  Meat  and  vegetables  two  and  three 

91 


SUSAN  LENOX 


times  what  they  was  a  few  years  ago.     And  rents  1" 
Mrs.  Tucker  threw  up  her  hands. 

"I  must  be  going,"  said  Susan.  "Good-by." 
She  put  out  her  hand,  but  Mrs.  Tucker  insisted  on 
kissing  her.  She  crossed  Washington  Square,  beau 
tiful  in  the  soft  evening  light,  and  went  up  Fifth  Ave 
nue.  She  felt  that  she  was  breathing  the  air  of  a  dif 
ferent  world  as  she  walked  along  the  broad  clean  side 
walk  with  the  handsome  old  houses  on  either  side,  with 
carriages  and  automobiles  speeding  past,  with  clean, 
happy-faced,  well  dressed  human  beings  in  sight  every 
where.  It  was  like  coming  out  of  the  dank  darkness 
of  Dismal  Swamp  into  smiling  fields  with  a  pure,  star- 
spangled  sky  above.  She  was  free — free !  It  might  be 
for  but  a  moment;  still  it  was  freedom,  infinitely  sweet 
because  of  past  slavery  and  because  of  the  fear  of 
slavery  closing  in  again.  She  had  abandoned  the  old 
toilet  articles.  She  had  only  the  clothes  she  was  wear 
ing,  the  thirty-one  dollars  divided  between  her  stock 
ings,  and  the  two-dollar  bill  stuffed  into  the  palm  of 
her  left  glove. 

She  had  walked  but  a  few  hundred  feet.  She  had 
advanced  into  a  region  no  more  prosperous  to  the  eye 
than  that  she  had  been  working  in  every  day.  Yet  she 
had  changed  her  world — because  she  had  changed  her 
J  point  of  view.  The  strata  that  form  society  lie  in 
roughly  parallel  lines  one  above  the  other.  The  flow 
of  all  forms  of  the  currents  of  life  is  horizontally  along 
these  strata,  never  vertically  from  one  stratum  to  an 
other.  These  strata,  lying  apparently  in  contact,  one 
upon  another,  are  in  fact  abysmally  separated.  There 
is  not — and  in  the  nature  of  things  never  can  be — any 
genuine  human  sympathy  between  any  two  strata.  We 
sympathize  in  our  own  stratum,  or  class ;  toward  other 

92 


SUSAN  LENOX 


strata — other  classes — our  attitude  is  necessarily  a 
looking1  up  or  a  looking  down.  Susan,  a  bit  of  flotsam, 
ascending,  descending,  ascending  across  the  social  lay 
ers — belonging  nowhere — having  attachments,  not  sym 
pathies,  a  real  settled  lot  nowhere — Susan  was  once 
more  upward  bound. 

At  the  corner  of  Fourteenth  Street  there  was  a  shop 
with  large  mirrors  in  the  show  windows.  She  paused 
to  examine  herself.  She  found  she  had  no  reason  to  be 
disturbed  about  her  appearance.  Her  dress  and  hat 
looked  well;  her  hair  was  satisfactory;  the  sharp  air 
had  brought  some  life  to  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and 
the  release  from  the  slums  had  restored  some  of  the 
light  to  her  eyes.  "Why  did  I  stay  there  so  long?"  she 
demanded  of  herself.  Then,  "How  have  I  suddenly  got 
the  courage  to  leave?"  She  had  no  answer  to  either 
question.  Nor  did  she  care  for  an  answer.  She  was 
not  even  especially  interested  in  what  was  about  to 
happen  to  her. 

The  moment  she  found  herself  above  Twenty-third 
Street  and  in  the  old  familiar  surroundings,  she  felt 
an  irresistible  longing  to  hear  about  Rod  Spenser.  She 
was  like  one  who  has  been  on  a  far  journey,  leaving 
behind  him  everything  that  has  been  life  to  him;  he 
dismisses  it  all  because  he  must,  until  he  finds  himself 
again  in  his  own  country,  in  his  old  surroundings.  She 
went  into  the  Hoffman  House  and  at  the  public  tele 
phone  got  the  Herald  office.  "Is  Mr.  Drumley  there?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply.     "He's  gone  to  Europe." 

"Did  Mr.  Spenser  go  with  him?" 

"Mr.  Spenser  isn't  here — hasn't  been  for  a  long  time. 
He's  abroad  too.  Who  is  this?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan,  hanging  up  the  receiver. 
She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 
30  93 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  left  the  hotel  by  the  women's  entrance  in  Broad 
way.  It  was  six  o'clock.  The  sky  was  clear — a  typical 
New  York  sky  with  air  that  intoxicated  blowing  from 
it — air  of  the  sea — air  of  the  depths  of  heaven.  A 
crescent  moon  glittered  above  the  Diana  on  the  Garden 
tower.  It  was  Saturday  night  and  Broadway  was 
thronged — with  men  eager  to  spend  in  pleasure  part  of 
the  week's  wages  or  salary  they  had  just  drawn;  with 
women  sparkling-eyed  and  odorous  of  perfumes  and 
eager  to  help  the  men.  The  air  was  sharp — was  the 
ocean  air  of  New  York  at  its  delicious  best.  And  the 
slim,  slightly  stooped  girl  with  the  earnest  violet-gray 
eyes  and  the  sad  bitter  mouth  from  whose  lips  the  once 
brilliant  color  had  now  fled  was  ready  for  whatever 
might  come.  She  paused  at  the  corner,  and  gazed  up 
brilliantly  lighted  Broadway. 

"Now!"  she  said  half  aloud  and,  like  an  expert 
swimmer  adventuring  the  rapids,  she  advanced  into  the 
swift-moving  crowd  of  the  highway  of  New  York's 


AT  the  corner  of  Twenty-sixth  Street  a  man  put 
himself  squarely  across  her  path.  She  was  at 
tracted  by  the  twinkle  in  his  good-natured  eyes. 
He  was  a  youngish  man,  had  the  stoutness  of  indulgence 
in  a  fondness  for  eating  and  drinking — but  the  stout 
ness  was  still  well  within  the  bounds  of  decency.  His 
clothing  bore  out  the  suggestion  of  his  self-assured  way 
of  stopping  her — the  suggestion  of  a  confidence-giving 
prosperity. 

"You  look  as  if  you  needed  a  drink,  too,"  said  he. 
"How  about  it,  lady  with  the  lovely  feet?" 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  feeling  on  an 
equality  with  man.  She  gave  him  the  same  candidly 
measuring  glance  that  man  gives  man.  She  saw  good 
nature,  audacity  without  impudence — at  least  not  the 
common  sort  of  impudence.  She  smiled  merrily,  glad 
of  the  chance  to  show  her  delight  that  she  was  once 
more  back  in  civilization  after  the  long  sojourn  in  the 
prison  workshops  where  it  is  manufactured.  She  said : 

"A  drink?     Thank  you— yes." 

"That's  a  superior  quality  of  smile  you've  got 
there,"  said  he.  "That,  and  those  nice  slim  feet  of 
yours  ought  to  win  for  you  anywhere.  Let's  go  to  the 
Martin." 

"Down  University  Place?" 

The  stout  young  man  pointed  his  slender  cane  across 
the  street.  "You  must  have  been  away." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl.     "I've  been— dead." 

"I'd  like  to  try  that  myself — if  I  could  be  sure  of 

95 


SUSAN  LENOX 


coming  to  life  in  little  old  New  York."  And  he  looked 
round  with  laughing  eyes  as  if  the  lights,  the  crowds, 
the  champagne-like  air  intoxicated  him. 

At  the  first  break  in  the  thunderous  torrent  of  traffic 
they  crossed  Broadway  and  went  in  at  the  Twenty- 
sixth  Street  entrance.  The  restaurant,  to  the  left,  was 
empty.  Its  little  tables  were  ready,  however,  for  the 
throng  of  diners  soon  to  come.  Susan  had  difficulty  in 
restraining  herself.  She  was  almost  delirious  with  de 
light.  She  was  agitated  almost  to  tears  by  the  fresh 
ness,  the  sparkle  in  the  glow  of  the  red-shaded  candles, 
in  the  colors  and  odors  of  the  flowers  decorating  every 
table.  While  she  had  been  down  there  all  this  had  been 
up  here — waiting  for  her!  Why  had  she  stayed  down 
there?  But  then,  why  had  she  gone?  What  folly, 
what  madness !  To  suffer  such  horrors  for  no  reason 
— beyond  some  vague,  clinging  remnant  of  a  supersti 
tion — or  had  it  been  just  plain  insanity?  "Yes,  I've 
been  crazy — out  of  my  head.  The  break  with — Rod — 
upset  my  mind." 

Her  companion  took  her  into  the  cafe  to  the  right. 
He  seated  her  on  one  of  the  leather  benches  not  far 
from  the  door,  seated  himself  in  a  chair  opposite ;  there 
was  a  narrow  marble-topped  table  between  them.  On 
Susan's  right  sat  a  too  conspicuously  dressed  but 
somehow  important  looking  actress ;  on  her  left,  a 
shopkeeper's  fat  wife.  Opposite  each  woman  sat  the 
sort  of  man  one  would  expect  to  find  with  her.  The 
face  of  the  actress's  man  interested  her.  It  was  a  long 
pale  face,  the  mouth  weary,  in  the  eyes  a  strange  hot 
fire  of  intense  enthusiasm.  He  was  young — and  old — 
and  neither.  Evidently  he  had  lived  every  minute  of 
every  year  of  his  perhaps  forty  years.  He  was  wear 
ing  a  quiet  suit  of  blue  and  his  necktie  was  of  a  darker 

96 


SUSAN  LENOX 


shade  of  the  same  color.  His  clothes  were  draped  upon 
his  good  figure  with  a  certain  fascinating  distinction. 
He  was  smoking  an  unusually  long  and  thick  cigarette. 
The  slender  strong  white  hand  he  raised  and  lowered 
was  the  hand  of  an  artist.  He  might  be  a  bad  man, 
a  very  bad  man — his  face  had  an  expression  of  free 
dom,  of  experience,  that  made  such  an  idea  as  con 
ventionality  in  connection  with  him  ridiculous.  But 
however  bad  he  might  be,  Susan  felt  sure  it  would  be 
an  artistic  kind  of  badness,  without  vulgarity.  He 
might  have  reached  the  stage  at  which  morality  ceases 
to  be  a  conviction,  a  matter  of  conscience,  and  becomes 
a  matter  of  preference,  of  tastes — and  he  surely  had 
good  taste  in  conduct  no  less  than  in  dress  and  manner. 
The  woman  with  him  evidently  wished  to  convince  him 
that  she  loved  him,  to  convince  those  about  her  that 
they  were  lovers ;  the  man  evidently  knew  exactly  what 
she  had  in  mind — for  he  was  polite,  attentive,  indif 
ferent,  and — Susan  suspected — secretly  amused. 

Susan's  escort  leaned  toward  her  and  said  in  a  low 
tone,  "The  two  at  the  next  table — the  woman's  Mary 
Rigsdall,  the  actress,  and  the  man's  Brent,  the  fellow 
who  writes  plays."  Then  in  a  less  cautious  tone, 
"What  are  you  drinking?" 

"What  are  you  drinking?"  asked  Susan,  still  cov 
ertly  watching  Brent. 

"You  are  going  to  dine  with  me?" 

"I've  no  engagement." 

"Then  let's  have  Martinis — and  I'll  go  get  a  table 
and  order  dinner  while  the  waiter's  bringing  them." 

When  Susan  was  alone,  she  gazed  round  the  crowded 
cafe,  at  the  scores  of  interesting  faces — thrillingly  in 
teresting  to  her  after  her  long  sojourn  among  coun 
tenances  merely  expressing  crude  elemental  appetites 

97 


SUSAN  LENOX 


if  anything  at  all  beyond  toil,  anxiety,  privation,  and 
bad  health.  These  were  the  faces  of  the  triumphant 
class — of  those  who  had  wealth  or  were  getting  it 
fame  or  were  striving  for  it,  of  those  born  to  or  ac 
quiring  position  of  some  sort  among  the  few  thousands 
who  lord  it  over  the  millions.  These  were  the  people 
among  whom  she  belonged.  Why  was  she  having  such 
a  savage  struggle  to  attain  it?  Then,  all  in  an  instant 
the  truth  she  had  been  so  long  groping  for  in  vain  flung 
itself  at  her.  None  of  these  women,  none  of  the  women 
of  the  prosperous  classes  would  be  there  but  for  the 
assistance  and  protection  of  the  men.  She  marveled  at 
her  stupidity  in  not  having  seen  the  obvious  thing 
clearly  long  ago.  The  successful  women  won  their  suc 
cess  by  disposing  of  their  persons  to  advantage — by 
getting  the  favor  of  some  man  of  ability.  Therefore, 
she,  a  woman,  must  adopt  that  same  policy  if  she  was 
to  have  a  chance  at  the  things  worth  while  in  life.  She 
must  make  the  best  bargain — or  series  of  bargains — she 
could.  And  as  her  necessities  were  pressing  she  must 
lose  no  time.  She  understood  now  the  instinct  that  had 
forced  her  to  fly  from  South  Fifth  Avenue,  that  had 
overruled  her  hesitation  and  had  compelled  her  to  ac 
cept  the  good-natured,  prosperous  man's  invitation.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  other  way  open  to  her.  She  must  not 
evade  that  fact ;  she  must  accept  it.  Other  ways  there 
might  be — for  other  women.  But  not  for  her,  the 
outcast  without  friends  or  family,  the  woman  alone, 
with  no  one  to  lean  upon  or  to  give  her  anything  except 
in  exchange  for  what  she  had  to  offer  that  was  market 
able.  She  must  make  the  bargain  she  could,  not  waste 
time  in  the  folly  of  awaiting  a  bargezp  to  her  liking. 
Since  she  was  living  in  the  world  and  wished  to  con 
tinue  to  live  there,  she  must  accept  the  world's  terms. 

98 


SUSAN  LENOX 


To  be  sad  or  angry  either  one  because  the  world  did 
not  offer  her  as  attractive  terms  as  it  apparently 
offered  many  other  women — the  happy  and  respected 
wives  and  mothers  of  the  prosperous  classes,  for  in 
stance — to  rail  against  that  was  silly  and  stupid,  was 
unworthy  of  her  intelligence.  She  would  do  as  best 
she  could,  and  move  along,  keeping  her  eyes  open ;  and 
perhaps  some  day  a  chance  for  much  better  terms  might 
offer — for  the  best — for  such  terms  as  that  famous 
actress  there  had  got.  She  looked  at  Mary  Rigsdall. 
An  expression  in  her  interesting  face — the  latent  rather 
than  the  surface  expression — set  Susan  to  wondering 
whether,  if  she  knew  Rigsdall's  whole  story — or  any 
woman's  whole  story — she  might  not  see  that  the  world 
was  not  bargaining  so  hardly  with  her,  after  all.  Or 
any  man's  whole  story.  There  her  eyes  shifted  to 
Rigsdall's  companion,  the  famous  playwright  of  whom 
she  had  so  often  heard  Rod  and  his  friends  talk. 

She  was  startled  to  find  that  his  gaze  was  upon  her 
— an  all-seeing  look  that  penetrated  to  the  very  core 
of  her  being.  He  either  did  not  note  or  cared  nothing 
about  her  color  of  embarrassment.  He  regarded  her 
steadily  until,  so  she  felt,  he  had  seen  precisely  what 
she  was,  had  become  intimately  acquainted  with  her. 
Then  he  looked  away.  It  chagrined  her  that  his  eyes 
did  not  again  turn  in  her  direction;  she  felt  that  he 
had  catalogued  her  as  not  worth  while.  She  listened  to 
the  conversation  of  the  two.  The  woman  did  the  talk 
ing,  and  her  subject  was  herself — her  ability  as  an 
actress,  her  conception  of  some  part  she  either  was 
about  to  play  or  was  hoping  to  play.  Susan,  too  young 
to  have  acquired  more  than  the  rudiments  of  the  dif 
ficult  art  of  character  study,  even  had  she  had  especial 
talent  for  it — which  she  had  not — Susan  decided  that 

99 


SUSAN  LENOX 


the  famous  Rigsdall  was  as  shallow  and  vain  as  Rod 
had  said  all  stage  people  were. 

The  waiter  brought  the  cocktails  and  her  stout  young 
companion  came  back,  beaming  at  the  thought  of  the 
dinner  he  had  painstakingly  ordered.  As  he  reached 
the  table  he  jerked  his  head  in  self-approval.  "It'll  be 
a  good  one,"  said  he.  "Saturday  night  dinner — and 
after — means  a  lot  to  me.  I  work  hard  all  week. 
Saturday  nights  I  cut  loose.  Sundays  I  sleep  and  get 
ready  to  scramble  again  on  Monday  for  the  dollars." 
He  seated  himself,  leaned  toward  her  with  elevated 
glass.  "What  name?"  inquired  he. 

"Susan." 

"That's  a  good  old-fashioned  name.  Makes  me  see 
the  hollyhocks,  and  the  hens  scratching  for  worms. 
Mine's  Howland.  Billy  Howland.  I  came  from  Mary 
land  .  .  .  and  I'm  mighty  glad  I  did.  I  wouldn't  be 
from  anywhere  else  for  worlds,  and  I  wouldn't  be  there 
for  worlds.  Where  do  you  hail  from?" 

"The  West,"  said  Susan. 

"Well,  the  men  in  your  particular  corner  out  yonder 
must  be  a  pretty  poor  lot  to  have  let  you  leave.  I 
spotted  you  for  mine  the  minute  I  saw  you — Susan.  I 
hope  you're  not  as  quiet  as  your  name.  Another  cock 
tail?" 

"Thanks." 

"Like  to  drink?" 

"I'm  going  to  do  more  of  it  hereafter." 

"Been  laying  low  for  a  while — eh?" 

"Very  low,"  said  Susan.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling 
now;  the  cocktail  had  begun  to  stir  her  long  languid 
blood. 

"Live  with  your  family?" 

"I  haven't  any.     I'm  free." 
100 


SUSAN  LENOX: 


"On  the  stage?" 

"I'm  thinking  of  going  on." 

"And  meanwhile  ?" 

"Meanwhile — whatever  comes."     Susan  laughed. 

"Hope  you're  going  to  do  a  lot  of  that  laughing," 
said  he.  "It's  the  best  I've  heard — such  a  quiet,  gay 
sound.  I  sure  do  have  the  best  luck.  Until  five  years 
ago  there  was  nothing  doing  for  Billy — hall  bedroom 
— Wheeling  stogies — one  shirt  and  two  pairs  of  cuffs 
a  week — not  enough  to  buy  a  lady  an  ice-cream  soda. 
All  at  once — bang !  The  hoodoo  busted,  and  everything  / 
that  arrived  was  for  William  C.  Howland.  Better  get 
aboard." 

"Here  I  am." 

"Hold  on  tight.  I  pay  no  attention  to  the  speed 
laws,  and  round  the  corners  on  two  wheels.  Do  you 
like  good  things  to  eat?" 

"I  haven't  eaten  for  six  months." 

"You  must  have  been  out  home.  Ah ! — There's  the 
man  to  tell  us  dinner's  ready." 

They  finished  the  second  cocktail.  Susan  was  pleased 
to  note  that  Brent  was  again  looking  at  her;  and  she 
thought — though  she  suspected  it  might  be  the  cock 
tail — that  there  was  a  question  in  his  look — a  question 
about  her  which  he  had  been  unable  to  answer  to  his 
satisfaction.  When  she  and  Howland  were  at  one  of 
the  small  tables  against  the  wall  in  the  restaurant,  she 
said  to  him: 

"You  know  Mr.  Brent?" 

"The  play  man?  Lord,  no.  I'm  a  plain  business 
dub.  He  wouldn't  bother  with  me.  You  like  that  sort 
of  man?" 

"I  want  to  get  on  the  stage,  if  I  can,"  was  Susan's 
diplomatic  reply. 

101 


-.'SUSAN  LENOX 


"Well — let's  have  dinner  first.  I've  ordered  cham 
pagne,  but  if  you  prefer  something  else " 

"Champagne  is  what  I  want.     I  hope  it's  very  dry." 

Rowland's  eyes  gazed  tenderly  at  her.  "I  do  like  a 
woman  who  knows  the  difference  between  champagne 
and  carbonated  sirup.  I  think  you  and  I've  got  a  lot 
of  tastes  in  common.  I  like  eating — so  do  you.  I  like 
drinking — so  do  you.  I  like  a  good  time — so  do  you. 
You're  a  little  bit  thin  for  my  taste,  but  you'll  fatten 
up.  I  wonder  what  makes  your  lips  so  pale." 

"I'd  hate  to  remind  myself  by  telling  you,"  said 
Susan. 

The  restaurant  was  filling.  Most  of  the  men  and 
women  were  in  evening  dress.  Each  arriving  woman 
brought  with  her  a  new  exhibition  of  extravagance  in 
costume,  diffused  a  new  variety  of  powerful  perfume. 
The  orchestra  in  the  balcony  was  playing  waltzes  and 
the  liveliest  Hungarian  music  and  the  most  sensuous 
strains  from  Italy  and  France  and  Spain.  And  before 
her  was  food! — food  again! — not  horrible  stuff  unfit 
for  beasts,  worse  than  was  fed  to  beasts,  but  human 
food — good  things,  well  cooked  and  well  served.  To 
have  seen  her,  to  have  seen  the  expression  of  her  eyes, 
without  knowing  her  history  and  without  having  lived 
as  she  had  lived,  would  have  been  to  think  her  a  glut 
ton.  Her  spirits  giddied  toward  the  ecstatic.  She 
began  to  talk — commenting  on  the  people  about  her — 
the  one  subject  she  could  venture  with  her  companion. 
As  she  talked  and  drank,  he  ate  and  drank,  stuffing  and 
gorging  himself,  but  with  a  frankness  of  gluttony  that 
delighted  her.  She  found  she  could  not  eat  much,  but 
she  liked  to  see  eating;  she  who  had  so  long  been  seeing 
only  poverty,  bolting  wretched  food  and  drinking  the 
vilest  kinds  of  whiskey  and  beer,  of  alleged  coffee  and 

102 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


tea — she  reveled  in  Rowland's  exhibition.  She  must 
learn  to  live  altogether  in  her  senses,  never  to  think 
except  about  an  appetite.  Where  could  she  find  a  better 
teacher?  .  .  .  They  drank  two  quarts  of  champagne, 
and  with  the  coffee  she  took  creme  de  menthe  and  he 
brandy.  And  as  the  sensuous  temperament  that  springs 
from  intense  vitality  reasserted  itself,  the  opportunity 
before  her  lost  all  its  repellent  features,  became  the 
bright,  vivid  countenance  of  lusty  youth,  irradiating  the 
joy  of  living. 

"I  hear  there's  a  lively  ball  up  at  Terrace  Garden," 
said  he.  "Want  to  go?" 

"That'll  be  fine!"  cried  she. 

She  saw  it  would  have  taken  nearly  all  the  money  she 
possessed  to  have  paid  that  bill.  About  four  weeks' 
wages  for  one  dinner !  Thousands  of  families  living  for 
two  weeks  on  what  she  and  he  had  consumed  in  two 
hours !  She  reached  for  her  half  empty  champagne 
glass,  emptied  it.  She  must  forget  all  those  things ! 
"I've  played  the  fool  once.  I've  learned  my  lesson. 
Surely  I'll  never  do  it  again."  As  she  drank,  her  eyes 
chanced  upon  the  clock.  Half-past  ten.  Mrs.  Tucker 
had  probably  just  fallen  asleep.  And  Mrs.  Reardon 
was  going  out  to  scrub — going  out  limping  and  groan 
ing  with  rheumatism.  No,  Mrs.  Reardon  was  lying  up 
at  the  morgue  dead,  her  one  chance  to  live  lost  for 
ever.  Dead !  Yet  better  off  than  Mrs.  Tucker  lying 
alive. 

The  ball  proved  as  lively  as  they  hoped.  A  select 
company  from  the  Tenderloin  was  attending,  and  the 
regulars  were  all  of  the  gayest  crowd  among  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  artisans  and  small  merchants  up  and 
down  the  East  Side.  Not  a  few  of  the  women  were 
extremely  pretty.  All,  or  almost  all,  were  young,  and 

103 


SUSAN  LENOX 


those  who  on  inspection  proved  to  be  older  than  eighteen 
or  twenty  were  acting  younger  than  the  youngest. 
Everyone  had  been  drinking  freely,  and  continued  to 
drink.  The  orchestra  played  continuously.  The  air 
was  giddy  with  laughter  and  song.  Couples  hugged 
and  kissed  in  corners,  and  finally  openly  on  the  dancing 
floor.  For  a  while  Susan  and  Howland  danced  together. 
But  soon  they  made  friends  with  the  crowd  and  danced 
with  whoever  was  nearest.  Toward  three  in  the  morn 
ing  it  flashed  upon  her  that  she  had  not  even  seen  him 
for  many  a  dance.  She  looked  round — searched  for 
him — got  a  blond-bearded  man  in  evening  dress  to  assist 
her. 

"The  last  seen  of  your  stout  friend,"  this  man  finally 
reported,  "he  was  driving  away  in  a  cab  with  a  large 
lady  from  Broadway.  He  was  asleep,  but  I  guess  she 
wasn't." 

A  sober  thought  winked  into  her  whirling  brain — he 
had  warned  her  to  hold  on  tight,  and  she  had  lost  her 
head — and  her  opportunity.  A  bad  start — a  foolishly 
bad  start.  But  out  winked  the  glimpse  of  sobriety  and 
Susan  laughed,  "That's  the  last  I'll  ever  see  of  him," 
said  she. 

This  seemed  to  give  Blond-Beard  no  regrets.  Said 
he:  "Let's  you  and  I  have  a  little  supper.  I'd  call  it 
breakfast,  only  then  we  couldn't  have  champagne." 

And  they  had  supper — six  at  the  table,  all  uproar 
ious,  Susan  with  difficulty  restrained  from  a  skirt  dance 
on  the  table  up  and  down  among  the  dishes  and  bottles. 
It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  she  and  Blond-Beard 
helped  each  other  toward  a  cab. 

Late  that  afternoon  she  established  herself  in  a  room 
with  a  bath  in  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  not  far  from 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Broadway.  The  exterior  of  the  house  was  dingy  and 
down-at-the-heel.  But  the  interior  was  new  and  scru 
pulously  clean.  Several  other  young  women  lived  there 
alone  also,  none  quite  so  well  installed  as  Susan,  who 
had  the  only  private  bath  and  was  paying  twelve  dol 
lars  a  week.  The  landlady,  frizzled  and  peroxide,  ex 
plained — without  adding  anything  to  what  she  already 
knew — that  she  could  have  "privileges,"  but  cautioned 
her  against  noise.  "I  can't  stand  for  it,"  said  she. 
"First  offense — out  you  go.  This  house  is  for  ladies, 
and  only  gentlemen  that  know  how  to  conduct  them 
selves  as  a  gentleman  should  with  a  lady  are  allowed 
to  come  here." 

Susan  paid  a  week  in  advance,  reducing  to  thirty-one 
dollars  her  capital  which  Blond-Beard  had  increased  to 
forty-three.  The  young  lady  who  lived  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall  smiled  at  her,  when  both  happened  to 
glance  from  their  open  doors  at  the  same  time.  Susan 
invited  her  to  call  and  she  immediately  advanced  along 
the  hall  in  the  blue  silk  kimono  she  was  wearing  over 
her  nightgown. 

"My  name  is  Ida  Driscoll,"  said  she,  showing  a 
double  row  of  charming  white  teeth — her  chief  positive 
claim  to  beauty. 

She  was  short,  was  plump  about  the  shoulders  but 
slender  in  the  hips.  Her  reddish  brown  hair  was  neatly 
done  over  a  big  rat,  and  was  so  spread  that  its  thinness 
was  hidden  well  enough  to  deceive  masculine  eyes.  Nor 
would  a  man  have  observed  that  one  of  her  white  round 
shoulders  was  full  two  inches  higher  than  the  other. 
Her  skin  was  good,  her  features  small  and  irregular, 
her  eyes  shrewd  but  kindly. 

"My  name's" — Susan  hesitated — "Lorna  Sackville." 

"I  guess  Lorna  and  Ida'll  be  enough  for  us  to  bother 

105 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  remember,"  laughed  Miss  Driscoll.  "The  rest's  liable 
to  change.  You've  just  come,  haven't  you?" 

"About  an  hour  ago.  I've  got  only  a  toothbrush,  a 
comb,  a  washrag  and  a  cake  of  soap.  I  bought  them 
on  my  way  here." 

"Baggage  lost — eh?"  said  Ida,  amused. 

"No,"  admitted  Susan.  "I'm  beginning  ?.n  entire 
new  deal." 

"I'll  lend  you  a  nightgown.  I'm  too  short  for  my 
other  things  to  fit  you." 

"Oh,  I  can  get  along.  What's  good  for  a  headache? 
I'm  nearly  crazy  with  it." 

"Wine?" 

"Yes." 

"Wait  a  minute."  Ida,  with  bedroom  slippers  clat 
tering,  hurried  back  to  her  room,  returned  with  a  bottle 
of  bromo  seltzer  and  in  the  bathroom  fixed  Susan  a 
dose.  "You'll  feel  all  right  in  half  an  hour  or  so.  Gee, 
but  you're  swell — with  your  own  bathroom." 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed. 

Ida  shook  her  head  gravely.  "You  ought  to  save 
your  money.  I  do." 

"Later — perhaps.     Just  now — I  must  have  a  fling." 

Ida  seemed  to  understand.  She  went  on  to  say:  "I 
was  in  millinery.  But  in  this  town  there's  nothing  in 
anything  unless  you  have  capital  or  a  backer.  I  got 
tired  of  working  for  five  per,  with  ten  or  fifteen  as  the 
top  notch.  So  I  quit,  kissed  my  folks  up  in  Harlem 
good-by  and  came  down  to  look  about.  As  soon  as  I've 
saved  enough  I'm  going  to  start  a  business.  That'll 
be  about  a  couple  of  years — maybe  sooner,  if  I  find  an 
angel." 

"I'm  thinking  of  the  stage." 

"Cut  it  out !"  cried  Ida.     "It's  on  the  bum." 

106 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Seems  to  me  the  men's  tastes  even  for  what  they 
want  at  home  are  getting  louder  and  louder  all  the  time. 
They  hate  anything  that  looks  slow." 

To  change  the  subject  Susan  invited  Ida  to  dine  with 
her. 

"What's  the  use  of  your  spending  money  in  a  restau 
rant?"  objected  Ida.  "You  eat  with  me  in  my  room. 
I  always  cook  myself  something  when  I  ain't  asked  out 
by  some  one  of  my  gentleman  friends.  I  can  cook  you  a 
chop  and  warm  up  a  can  of  French  peas  and  some  dandy 
tea  biscuits  I  bought  yesterday." 

Susan  accepted  the  invitation,  promising  that  when 
she  was  established  she  would  reciprocate.  As  it  was 
about  six,  they  arranged  to  have  the  dinner  at  seven, 
Susan  to  dress  in  the  meantime.  The  headache  had 
now  gone,  even  to  that  last  heaviness  which  seems  to  be 
an  ominous  threat  of  a  return.  When  she  was  alone, 
she  threw  off  her  clothes,  filled  the  big  bathtub  with 
water  as  hot  as  she  could  stand  it.  Into  this  she  gently 
lowered  herself  until  she  was  able  to  relax  and  recline 
without  discomfort.  Then  she  stood  up  and  with  the 
soap  and  washrag  gave  herself  the  most  thorough  scrub 
bing  of  her  life.  Time  after  time  she  soaped  and  rubbed 
and  scrubbed,  and  dipped  herself  in  the  hot  water. 
When  she  felt  that  she  had  restored  her  body  to  some 
where  near  her  ideal  of  cleanliness,  she  let  the  water  run 
out  and  refilled  the  tub  with  even  hotter  water.  In  this 
she  lay  luxuriously,  reveling  in  the  magnificent  sensa 
tions  of  warmth  and  utter  cleanliness.  Her  eyes  closed ; 
a  delicious  languor  stole  over  her  and  through  her, 
soothing  every  nerve.  She  slept. 

She  was  awakened  by  Ida,  who  had  entered  after 
knocking  and  calling  at  the  outer  door  in  vain.  Susan 
slowly  opened  her  eyes,  gazed  at  Ida  with  a  soft  dreamy 

107 


SUSAN  LENOX 


smile.  "You  don't  know  what  this  means.  It  seems 
to  me  I  was  never  quite  so  comfortable  or  so  happy  in 
my  life." 

"It's  a  shame  to  disturb  you,"  said  Ida.  "But  din 
ner's  ready.  Don't  stop  to  dress  first.  I'll  bring  you 
a  kimono." 

Susan  turned  on  the  cold  water,  and  the  bath  rapidly 
changed  from  warm  to  icy.  When  she  had  indulged  in 
the  sense  of  cold  as  delightful  in  its  way  as  the  sense 
of  warmth,  she  rubbed  her  glowing  skin  with  a  rough 
towel  until  she  was  rose-red  from  head  to  foot.  Then 
she  put  on  stockings,  shoes  and  the  pink  kimono  Ida 
had  brought,  and  ran  along  the  hall  to  dinner.  As  she 
entered  Ida's  room,  Ida  exclaimed,  "How  sweet  and 
pretty  you  do  look!  You  sure  ought  to  make  a  hit!" 

"I  feel  like  a  human  being  for  the  first  time  in — it 
seems  years — ages — to  me." 

"You've  got  a  swell  color — except  your  lips.  Have 
they  always  been  pale  like  that?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.  It  don't  seem  to  fit  in  with  your 
style.  You  ought  to  touch  'em  up.  You  look  too  se 
rious  and  innocent,  anyhow.  They  make  a  rouge  now 
that'll  stick  through  everything — eating,  drinking — 
anything." 

Susan  regarded  herself  critically  in  the  glass.  "I'll 
see,"  she  said. 

The  odor  of  the  cooking  chops  thrilled  Susan  like 
music.  She  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  table,  sat  in  happy- 
go-lucky  fashion,  and  attacked  the  chop,  the  hot  bis 
cuit,  and  the  peas,  with  an  enthusiasm  that  inspired  Ida 
to  imitation.  "You  know  how  to  cook  a  chop,"  she 
said  to  Ida.  "And  anybody  who  can  cook  a  chop  right 
can  cook.  Cooking's  like  playing  the  piano.  If  you 

108 


SUSAN  LENOX 


can  do  the  simple  things  perfectly,  you're  ready  to  do 
anything." 

"Wait  till  I  have  a  flat  of  my  own,"  said  Ida.  "I'll 
show  you  what  eating  means.  And  I'll  have  it,  too, 
before  very  long.  Maybe  we'll  live  together.  I  was  to 
a  fortune  teller's  yesterday.  That's  the  only  way  I 
waste  money.  I  go  to  fortune  tellers  nearly  every  day. 
But  then  all  the  girls  do.  You  get  your  money's  worth 
in  excitement  and  hope,  whether  there's  anything  in  it 
or  not.  Well,  the  fortune  teller  she  said  I  was  to  meet 
a  dark,  slender  person  who  was  to  change  the  whole 
course  of  my  life — that  all  my  troubles  would  roll  away 
— and  that  if  any  more  came,  they'd  roll  away,  too. 
My,  but  she  did  give  me  a  swell  fortune,  and  only  fifty 
cents  !  I'll  take  you  to  her." 

Ida  made  black  coffee  and  the  two  girls,  profoundly 
contented,  drank  it  and  talked  with  that  buoyant  cheer 
fulness  which  bubbles  up  in  youth  on  the  slightest  pre 
text.  In  this  case  the  pretext  was  anything  but  slight, 
for  both  girls  had  health  as  well  as  youth,  had  that 
freedom  from  harassing  responsibility  which  is  the  chief 
charm  of  every  form  of  unconventional  life.  And  Susan 
was  still  in  the  first  flush  of  the  joy  of  escape  from  the 
noisome  prison  whose  poisons  had  been  corroding  her, 
soul  and  body.  No,  poison  is  not  a  just  comparison; 
what  poison  in  civilization  parallels,  or  even  approaches, 
in  squalor,  in  vileness  of  food  and  air,  in  wretchedness 
of  shelter  and  clothing,  the  tenement  life  that  is  really 
the  typical  life  of  the  city?  From  time  to  time 
Susan,  suffused  with  the  happiness  that  is  too  deep 
for  laughter,  too  deep  for  tears  even,  gazed  round 
like  a  dreamer  at  those  cheerful  comfortable  surround 
ings  and  drew  a  long  breath — stealthily,  as  if  she 
feared  she  would  awaken  and  be  again  in  South  Fifth 

109 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Avenue,  of  rags  and  filth,  of  hideous  toil  without  hope. 

"You'd  better  save  your  money  to  put  in  the  milli 
nery  business  with  me,"  Ida  advised.  "I  can  show  you 
how  to  make  a  lot." 

Susan  threw  her  arms  round  Ida  and  kissed  her. 
"Don't  bother  about  me,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to  act 
in  my  own  foolish,  stupid  way.  I'm  like  a  child  going 
to  school.  I've  got  to  learn  a  certain  amount  before 
I'm  ready  to  do  whatever  it  is  I'm  going  to  do.  Arid 
until  I  learn  it,  I  can't  do  much  of  anything.  I  thought 
I  had  learned  in  the  last  few  months.  I  see  I  haven't." 

"Do  listen  to  sense,  Lorna,"  pleaded  Ida.  "If  you 
wait  till  the  last  minute,  you'll  get  left.  The  time  to 
get  the  money's  when  you  have  money.  And  I've  a  feel 
ing  that  you're  not  particularly  flush." 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can.  And  I  can't  move  till  I'm 
ready." 

Susan,  silent,  her  thoughts  flowing  like  a  mill  race, 
helped  Ida  with  the  dishes.  Then  they  dressed  and 
went  together  for  a  walk.  It  being  Sunday  evening,  the 
streets  were  quiet.  They  sauntered  up  Fifth  Avenue 
as  far  as  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  back. 

They  returned  home  at  half-past  nine  without  adven 
ture.  Toward  midnight  one  of  Ida's  regulars  called  and 
Susan  was  free  to  go  to  bed.  She  slept  hardly  at  all. 
Ever  before  her  mind  hovered  a  nameless,  shapeless  hor 
ror.  And  when  she  slept  she  dreamed  of  her  wedding 
night,  woke  herself  screaming,  "Please,  Mr.  Ferguson — 
please !" 

Meanwhile  she  continued  to  search  for  work — work 
that  would  enable  her  to  live  decently,  wages  less  de 
grading  than  the  wages  of  shame.  In  a  newspaper  she 
read  an  advertisement  of  a  theatrical  agency.  Adver- 

110 


SUSAN  LENOX 


tisements  of  all  kinds  read  well;  those  of  theatrical 
agencies  read — like  the  fairy  tales  that  they  were. 
However,  she  found  in  this  particular  offering  of  daz 
zling  careers  and  salaries  a  peculiar  phrasing  that  de 
cided  her  to  break  the  rule  she  had  made  after  having 
investigated  scores  of  this  sort  of  offers. 

Rod  was  abroad ;  anyhow,  enough  time  had  elapsed. 
One  of  the  most  impressive  features  of  the  effect  of 
New  York — meaning  by  "New  York"  only  that  small 
but  significant  portion  of  the  four  millions  that  thinks 
— at  least,  after  a  fashion,  and  acts,  instead  of  being 
mere  passive  tools  of  whatever  happens  to  turn  up — 
the  most  familiar  notable  effect  of  this  New  York  is 
the  speedy  distinction  in  the  newcomer  of  those  illu 
sions  and  delusions  about  life  and  about  human  nature, 
about  good  and  evil,  that  are  for  so  many  people  the 
most  precious  and  the  only  endurable  and  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world.  New  York,  destroyer  of  delusions  and 
cherished  hypocrisies  and  pretenses,  therefore  makes  the 
broadly  intelligent  of  its  citizens  hardy,  makes  the 
others  hard — and  between  the  hardy  and  hard,  between 
sense  and  cynicism,  yawns  a  gulf  like  that  between  Absa 
lom  and  Dives.  Susan,  a  New  Yorker  now,  had  got 
the  habit — in  thought,  at  least — of  seeing  things  with 
somewhat  less  distortion  from  the  actual.  She  no 
longer  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  Rod-Susan 
episode.  She  saw  that  in  New  York,  where  life  is 
crowded  with  events,  everything  in  one's  life,  except 
death,  becomes  incident,  becomes  episode,  where  in  re 
gions  offering  less  to  think  about  each  rare  happening 
took  on  an  aspect  of  vast  importance.  The  Rod-Susan 
love  adventure,  she  now  saw,  was  not  what  it  would  have 
seemed — therefore,  would  have  been — in  Sutherland, 
but  was  mere  episode  of  a  New  York  life,  giving  its 

111 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  a  flat  where  there  is  a  lady — a  trustworthy,  square 
sort,  despite  her — her  profession.  She  will  put  you  in 
the  way  of  getting  on  a  sound  financial  basis." 

Ransome  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  like  a  man 
stating  a  simple  business  proposition.  Susan  under 
stood.  She  rose.  Her  expression  was  neither  shock 
nor  indignation ;  but  it  was  none  the  less  a  negative. 

To  her  amazement  he  held  out  a  five-dollar  bill. 
"Here's  your  fee  back."  He  laughed  at  her  expression. 
"Oh,  I'm  not  a  robber,"  said  he.  "I  only  wish  I  could 
serve  you.  I  didn't  think  you  were  so — "  his  eyes 
twinkled — "so  unreasonable,  let  us  say.  Among  those 
who  don't  know  anything  about  life  there's  an  im 
pression  that  my  sort  of  people  are  in  the  business  of 
dragging  women  down.  Perhaps  one  of  us  occasionally 
does  as  bad — about  a  millionth  part  as  bad — as  the 
average  employer  of  labor  who  skims  his  profits  from 
the  lifeblood  of  his  employees.  But  as  a  rule  we  folks 
merely  take  those  that  are  falling  and  help  them  to 
light  easy — or  even  to  get  up  again." 

Susan  felt  ashamed  to  take  her  money.  But  he 
pressed  it  on  her.  "You'll  need  it,"  said  he.  "I  know- 
how  it  is  with  a  girl  alone  and  trying  to  get  a  start. 
Perhaps  later  on  you'll  be  more  in  the  mood  where  I 
can  help  you." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Susan. 

"But  I  hope  not.  It'll  take  uncommon  luck  to  pull 
you  through — and  I  hope  you'll  have  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan.  He  took  her  hand, 
pressed  it  friendlily — and  she  felt  that  he  was  a  man 
with  real  good  in  him,  more  good  than  many  who  would 
have  shrunk  from  him  in  horror. 

She  was  waiting  for  a  thrust  from  fate.  But  fate, 
disappointing  as  usual,  would  not  thrust.  It  seemed 

114 


SUSAN  LENOX 


bent  on  the  malicious  pleasure  of  compelling  her  to 
degrade  herself  deliberately  and  with  calculation,  like 
a  woman  marrying  for  support  a  man  who  refuses  to 
permit  her  to  decorate  with  any  artificial  floral  con 
cealments  of  faked-up  sentiment  the  sordid  truth  as 
to  what  she  is  about.  She  searched  within  herself  in 
vain  for  the  scruple  or  sentiment  or  timidity  or  what 
ever  it  was  that  held  her  back  from  the  course  that  was 
plainly  inevitable.  She  had  got  down  to  the  naked 
fundamentals  of  decency  and  indecency  that  are  deep 
hidden  by,  and  for  most  of  us  under,  hypocrisies  of  con 
ventionality.  She  had  found  out  that  a  decent  woman 
was  one  who  respected  her  body  and  her  soul,  that  an 
indecent  woman  was  one  who  did  not,  and  that  mar 
riage  rites  or  the  absence  of  them,  the  absence  of  finan 
cial  or  equivalent  consideration,  or  its  presence,  or  its 
extent  or  its  form,  were  all  irrelevant  non-essentials. 
Yet — she  hesitated,  knowing  the  while  that  she  was 
risking  a  greater  degradation,  and  a  stupid  and  fatal 
folly  to  boot,  by  shrinking  from  the  best  course  open 
to  her — unless  it  were  better  to  take  a  dose  of  poison 
and  end  it  all.  She  probably  would  have  done  that  had 
she  not  been  so  utterly  healthy,  therefore  overflowing 
with  passionate  love  of  life.  Except  in  fiction  suicide 
and  health  do  not  go  together,  however  superhumanly 
sensitive  the  sore  beset  hero  or  heroine.  Susan  was 
sensitive  enough;  whenever  she  did  things  incompatible 
with  our  false  and  hypocritical  and  unscientific  notions 
of  sensitiveness,  allowances  should  be  made  for  her  be 
cause  of  her  superb  and  dauntless  health.  If  her  physi 
cal  condition  had  been  morbid,  her  conduct  might  have 
been,  would  have  been,  very  different. 

She  was  still  hesitating  when  Saturday  night  came 
round  again — swiftly  despite  long  disheartening  days, 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  wakeful  awful  nights.  In  the  morning  her  rent 
would  be  due.  She  had  a  dollar  and  forty-five  cents. 
After  dinner  alone — a  pretense  at  dinner — she  wan 
dered  the  streets  of  the  old  Tenderloin  until  midnight. 
An  icy  rain  was  falling.  Rains  such  as  this — any  rains 
except  showers — were  rare  in  the  City  of  the  Sun.  That 
rain  by  itself  was  enough  to  make  her  downhearted. 
She  walked  with  head  down  and  umbrella  close  to  her 
shoulders.  No  one  spoke  to  her.  She  returned  drip 
ping;  she  had  all  but  ruined  her  one  dress.  She  went 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  About  nine — early  for  that 
house — she  rose,  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  and  ate  part  of  a 
roll.  Her  little  stove  and  such  other  things  as  could  not 
be  taken  along  she  rolled  into  a  bundle,  marked  it,  "For 
Ida."  On  a  scrap  of  paper  she  wrote  this  note : 

Don't  think  I'm  ungrateful,  please.  I'm  going  without 
saying  good-by  because  I'm  afraid  if  I  saw  you,  you'd  be 
generous  enough  to  put  up  for  me,  and  I'd  be  weak  enough 
to  accept.  And  if  I  did  that,  I'd  never  be  able  to  get  strong 
or  even  to  hold  my  head  up.  So — good-by.  I'll  learn 
sooner  or  later — learn  how  to  live.  I  hope  it  won't  be  too 
long — and  that  the  teacher  won't  be  too  hard  on  me. 

Yes,  I'll  learn,  and  I'll  buy  fine  hats  at  your  grand  mil 
linery  store  yet.  Don't  forget  me  altogether. 

She  tucked  this  note  into  the  bundle  and  laid  it 
against  the  door  behind  wrhich  Ida  and  one  of  her  regu 
lars  were  sleeping  peacefully.  The  odor  of  Ida's  power 
ful  perfume  came  through  the  cracks  in  the  door ;  Susan 
drew  it  eagerly  into  her  nostrils,  sobbed  softly,  turned 
away.  It  was  one  of  the  perfumes  classed  as  immoral; 
to  Susan  it  was  the  aroma  of  a  friendship  as  noble,  as 
disinterested,  as  generous,  as  human  sympathy  had 
ever  breathed  upon  human  woe.  With  her  few  personal 
possessions  in  a  package  she  descended  the  stairs  un- 

116 


SUSAN  LENOX 


noticed,  went  out  into  the  rain.  At  the  corner  of  Sixth 
Avenue  she  paused,  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  It 
was  almost  deserted.  Now  and  then  a  streetwalker, 
roused  early  by  a  lover  with  perhaps  a  family  waiting 
for  him,  hurried  by,  looking  piteous  in  the  daylight 
which  showed  up  false  and  dyed  hair,  the  layers  of 
paint,  the  sad  tawdriness  of  battered  finery  from  the 
cheapest  bargain  troughs. 

Susan  went  slowly  up  Sixth  Avenue.  Two  blocks, 
and  she  saw  a  girl  enter  the  side  door  of  a  saloon  across 
the  way.  She  crossed  the  street,  pushed  in  at  the  same 
door,  went  on  to  a  small  sitting-room  with  blinds  drawn, 
with  round  tables,  on  every  table  a  match  stand.  It 
was  one  of  those  places  where  streetwalkers  rest  their 
weary  legs  between  strolls,  and  sit  for  company  on 
rainy  or  snowy  nights,  and  take  shy  men  for  sociability- 
breeding  drinks  and  for  the  preliminary  bargaining. 
The  air  of  the  room  was  strong  with  stale  liquor  and 
tobacco,  the  lingering  aroma  of  the  night's  vanished 
revels.  In  the  far  corner  sat  the  girl  she  had  followed ; 
a  glass  of  raw  whiskey  and  another  of  water  stood  on 
the  table  before  her.  Susan  seated  herself  near  the 
door  and  when  the  swollen-faced,  surly  bartender 
came,  ordered  whiskey.  She  poured  herself  a  drink — 
filled  the  glass  to  the  brim.  She  drank  it  in  two  gulps, 
set  the  empty  glass  down.  She  shivered  like  an  animal 
as  it  is  hit  in  the  head  with  a  poleax.  The  mechanism 
of  life  staggered,  hesitated,  went  on  with  a  sudden  leap 
ing  acceleration  of  pace.  Susan  tapped  her  glass 
against  the  matchstand.  The  bartender  came. 

"Another,"  said  she. 

The  man  stared  at  her.  "The — hell!"  he  ejaculated. 
"You  must  be  afraid  o'  catchin'  cold.  Or  maybe  you're 
lookin'  for  the  menagerie?" 

117 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Susan  laughed  and  so  did  the  girl  in  the  corner. 
"Won't  you  have  a  drink  with  me?"  asked  Susan. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  replied  the  girl,  in  the 
manner  of  one  eager  to  show  that  she,  too,  is  a  perfect 
lady  in  every  respect,  used  to  the  ways  of  the  best 
society.  She  moved  to  a  chair  at  Susan's  table. 

She  and  Susan  inventoried  each  other.  Susan  saw 
a  mere  child — hardly  eighteen — possibly  not  seventeen 
— but  much  worn  by  drink  and  irregular  living — evi 
dently  one  of  those  who  rush  into  the  fast  woman's  life 
with  the  idea  that  it  is  a  career  of  gayety — and  do  not 
find  out  their  error  until  looks  and  health  are  gone. 
Susan  drank  her  second  drink  in  three  gulps,  several 
minutes  apart. 

The  bartender  served  the  third  drink  and  Susan  paid 
for  them,  the  other  girl  insisting  on  paying  for  the 
one  she  was  having  when  Susan  came.  Susan's  head 
was  whirling.  Her  spirits  were  spiraling  up  and  up. 
Her  pale  lips  were  wreathed  in  a  reckless  smile.  She 
felt  courageous  for  adventure — any  adventure.  Her 
capital  had  now  sunk  to  three  quarters  and  a  five-cent 
piece.  They  issued  forth,  talking  without  saying  any 
thing,  laughing  without  knowing  or  caring  why.  Life 
was  a  joke — a  coarse,  broad  joke — but  amusing  if  one 
drank  enough  to  blunt  any  refinement  of  sensibility. 
And  what  was  sensibility  but  a  kind  of  snobbishness? 
And  what  more  absurd  than  snobbishness  in  an  outcast? 

"That's  good  whiskey  they  had,  back  there,"  said 
Susan. 

"Good?     Yes — if  you  don't  care  what  you  say." 

"If  you  don't  want  to  care  what  you  say  or  do,"  ex 
plained  Susan. 

"Oh,  all  booze  is  good  for  that,"  said  the  girl. 

118 


VI 

THEY  went  through  to  Broadway  and  there  stood 
waiting  for  a  car,  each  under  her  own  umbrella. 
"Holy  Gee!"  cried  Susan's  new  acquaintance, 
"Ain't  this  rain  a  soaker?" 

It  was  coming  in  sheets,  bent  and  torn  and  driven 
horizontally  by  the  wind.  The  umbrella,  sheltering  the 
head  somewhat,  gave  a  wholly  false  impression  of  pro 
tection.  Both  girls  were  soon  sopping  wet.  But  they 
were  more  than  cheerful  about  it;  the  whiskey  made 
them  indifferent  to  external  ills  as  they  warmed  them 
selves  by  its  bright  fire.  At  that  time  a  famous  and 
much  envied,  admired  and  respected  "captain  of  in 
dustry,"  having  looted  the  street-car  systems,  was  pre 
paring  to  loot  them  over  again  by  the  familiar  trickery 
of  the  receivership  and  the  reorganization.  The  masses 
of  the  people  were  too  ignorant  to  know  what  was  going 
on;  the  classes  were  too  busy,  each  man  of  each  of 
them,  about  his  own  personal  schemes  for  graft  of  one 
kind  and  another.  Thus,  the  street-car  service  was  a 
joke  and  a  disgrace.  However,  after  four  or  five  min 
utes  a  north-bound  car  appeared. 

"But  it  won't  stop,"  cried  Susan.     "It's  jammed." 

"That's  why  it  will  stop,"  replied  her  new  acquaint 
ance.  "You  don't  suppose  a  New  York  conductor'd 
miss  a  chance  to  put  his  passengers  more  on  the  bum 
than  ever?" 

She  was  right,  at  least  as  to  the  main  point ;  and  the 
conductor  with  much  free  handling  of  their  waists  and 
shoulders  added  them  to  the  dripping,  straining  press 

119 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  passengers,  enduring  the  discomforts  the  captain  of 
industry  put  upon  them  with  more  patience  than  cattle 
would  have  exhibited  in  like  circumstances.  All  the 
way  up  Broadway  the  new  acquaintance  enlivened  her 
self  and  Susan  and  the  men  they  were  squeezed  in 
among  by  her  loud  gay  sallies  which  her  young  pretti- 
ness  made  seem  witty.  And  certainly  she  did  have  an 
amazing  and  amusing  acquaintance  with  the  slang  at 
the  moment  current.  The  worn  look  had  vanished,  her 
rounded  girlhood  freshness  had  returned.  As  for 
Susan,  you  would  hardly  have  recognized  her  as  the 
same  person  who  had  issued  from  the  house  in  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  less  than  an  hour  before.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  the  same  person.  Drink  nervifies  every  character; 
here  it  transformed,  suppressing  the  characteristics 
that  seemed,  perhaps  were,  essential  in  her  normal 
state,  and  causing  to  bloom  in  sudden  audacity  of 
color  and  form  the  passions  and  gayeties  at  other  times 
subdued  by  her  intelligence  and  her  sensitiveness.  Her 
brilliant  glance  moved  about  the  car  full  as  boldly  as 
her  companion's.  But  there  was  this  difference:  Her 
companion  gazed  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  men; 
Susan's  glance  shot  past  above  or  just  below  their 
eyes. 

"You  forgot  your  package — back  in  the  saloon!'* 
said  the  girl. 

"Then  I  didn't  forget  much,"  laughed  Susan.  It 
appealed  to  her,  the  idea  of  entering  the  new  life  empty- 
handed. 

The  hotel  was  one  that  must  have  been  of  the  first 
class  in  its  day — not  a  distant  day,  for  the  expansion 
of  New  York  in  craving  for  showy  luxury  has  been  as 
sudden  as  the  miraculous  upward  thrust  of  a  steel  sky 
scraper.  It  had  now  sunk  to  relying  upon  the  trade 

120 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  those  who  came  in  off  Broadway  for  a  few  minutes. 
It  was  dingy  and  dirty;  the  walls  and  plastering  were 
peeling;  the  servants  were  slovenly  and  fresh.  The 
girl  nodded  to  the  evil-looking  man  behind  the  desk, 
who  said: 

"Hello,  Miss  Maud.  Just  in  time.  The  boys  were 
sending  out  for  some  others." 

"They've  got  a  nerve!"  laughed  Maud.  And  she 
led  Susan  down  a  rather  long  corridor  to  a  door  with 
the  letter  B  upon  it.  Maud  explained:  "This  is  the 
swellest  suite  in  the  house — parlor,  bedroom,  bath." 
She  flung  open  the  door,  disclosing  a  sitting-room  in 
disorder  with  two  young  men  partly  dressed,  seated  at 
a  small  table  on  which  were  bottles,  siphons,  matches, 
remains  of  sandwiches,  boxes  of  cigarettes — a  chaotic 
jumble  of  implements  to  dissipation  giving  forth  a 
powerful,  stale  odor.  Maud  burst  into  a  stream  of 
picturesque  profanity  which  set  the  two  men  to  laugh 
ing.  Susan  had  paused  on  the  threshold.  The  shock 
of  this  scene  had  for  the  moment  arrested  the  trium 
phant  march  of  the  alcohol  through  blood  and  nerve 
and  brain. 

"Oh,  bite  it  off!"  cried  the  darker  of  the  two  men  to 
Maud,  "and  have  a  drink.  Ain't  you  ashamed  to  speak 
so  free  before  your  innocent  young  lady  friend?"  He 
grinned  at  Susan.  "What  Sunday  School  do  you  hail 
from?"  inquired  he. 

The  other  young  man  was  also  looking  at  Susan; 
and  it  was  an  arresting  and  somewhat  compelling  gaze. 
She  saw  that  he  was  tall  and  well  set  up.  As  he  was 
dressed  only  in  trousers  and  a  pale  blue  silk  undershirt, 
the  strength  of  his  shoulders,  back  and  arms  was  in  full 
evidence.  His  figure  was  like  that  of  the  wonderful 
young  prize-fighters  she  had  admired  at  moving  picture 


SUSAN  LENOX 


shows  to  which  Drumley  had  taken  her.  He  had  a 
singularly  handsome  face,  blond,  yet  remotely  suggest 
ing  Italian.  He  smiled  at  Susan  and  she  thought  she 
had  never  seen  teeth  more  beautiful — pearl-white,  reg 
ular,  even.  His  eyes  were  large  and  sensuous ;  smiling 
though  they  were,  Susan  was  ill  at  ease — for  in  them 
there  shone  the  same  untamed,  uncontrolled  ferocity 
that  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  wild  beast.  His  youth,  his 
good  looks,  his  charm  made  the  sinister  savagery  hinted 
in  the  smile  the  more  disconcerting.  He  poured  whis 
key  from  a  bottle  into  each  of  the  two  tall  glasses,  filled 
them  up  with  selzer,  extended  one  toward  Susan. 

The  young  man  said,  "Your  name's  Queenie,  mine's 
Freddie." 

"Now,  I'm  going  to  stand  behind  you.  I've  got  a 
pull  with  the  organization.  I'm  one  of  Finnegan's 
lieutenants.  Some  day — when  I'm  older  and  have 
served  my  apprenticeship — I'll  pull  off  something 
good.  Meanwhile — I  manage  to  live.  I  always  have 
managed  it — and  I  never  did  a  stroke  of  real  work 
since  I  was  a  kid — and  never  shall.  God  was  mighty 
good  to  me  when  he  put  a  few  brains  in  this  nut  of 
mine." 

An  extraordinary  man,  certainly — and  in  what  a 
strange  way! 

"Yes,"  said  he  presently,  looking  at  her  with  his 
gentle,  friendly  smile.  "We'll  be  partners." 

Her  reply  to  his  restatement  of  the  partnership 
was: 

"No,  thank  you.     I  want  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"You're  dead  slow,"  said  he,  with  mild  and  patient 
persuasion. 

"I'll  look  out  for  myself,"  persisted  she. 

"Bless  the  baby!"  exclaimed  he,  immensely  amused. 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


He  let  her  reflect  a  while.     Then  he  went  on: 

"You  don't  understand  about  fellows  like  Jim  and 
me — though  Jim's  a  small  potato  beside  me,  as  you'll 
soon  find  out.  Suppose  you  didn't  obey  orders — just 
as  I  do  what  Finnegan  tells  me — just  as  Finnegan 
does  what  the  big  shout  down  below  says?  Suppose 
you  didn't  obey — what  then?" 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Susan. 

"Well,  it's  time  you  learned.  We'll  say,  you  act 
stubborn.  You  say  good-by  to  me  and  start  out. 
Do  you  think  I'm  wicked  enough  to  let  you  make  a 
fool  of  yourself?  Well,  I'm  not.  You  won't  get  out 
side  the  door  before  your  good  angel  here  will  get 
busy.  I'll  be  telephoning  to  a  fly  cop  of  this  dis 
trict.  And  what'll  he  do?  Why,  about  the  time  you 
are  halfway  down  the  block,  he'll  pinch  you.  He'll 
take  you  to  the  station  house.  And  in  Police  Court 
tomorrow  the  Judge'll  give  you  a  week  on  the  Island." 

Susan  shivered.  She  instinctively  glanced  toward 
the  window.  The  rain  was  still  falling,  changing  the 
City  of  the  Sun  into  a  city  of  desolation.  It  looked 
as  though  it  would  never  see  the  sun  again — and  her 
life  looked  that  way,  also. 

The  more  intelligent  a  trapped  animal  is,  the  less 
resistance  it  offers,  once  it  realizes.  Helpless — abso 
lutely  helpless.  No  money — no  friends.  No  escape 
but  death.  The  sun  was  shining.  Outside  lay  the 
vast  world ;  across  the  street  on  a  flagpole  fluttered  the 
banner  of  freedom.  Freedom!  Was  there  any  such 
thing  anywhere?  Perhaps  if  one  had  plenty  of  money 
— or  powerful  friends.  But  not  for  her,  any  more 
than  for  the  masses  whose  fate  of  squalid  and  stupid 
slavery  she  was  trying  to  escape.  Not  for  her;  so 
long  as  she  was  helpless  she  would  simply  move  from 


SUSAN  LENOX 


one  land  of  slavery  to  another.     Helpless !     To  strug 
gle  would  not  be  courageous,  but  merely  absurd. 

She  took  the  quarters  he  directed — a  plain  clean 
room  two  flights  up  at  seven  dollars  a  week,  in  a 
furnished  room  house  on  West  Forty-third  Street 
near  Eighth  Avenue.  She  was  but  a  few  blocks  from 
where  she  and  Rod  had  lived.  New  York  illus 
trates  in  the  isolated  lives  of  its  never  isolated  inhab 
itants  how  little  relationship  there  is  between  space 
and  actualities  of  distance.  Wherever  on  earth  there 
are  as  many  as  two  human  beings,  one  may  see  an  in 
stance  of  the  truth.  That  an  infinity  of  spiritual 
solitude  can  stretch  uncrossable  even  between  two 
locked  in  each  other's  loving  arms!  But  New  York's 
solitudes,  its  separations,  extend  to  the  surface 
things.  Susan  had  no  sense  of  the  apparent  nearness 
of  her  former  abode.  Her  life  again  lay  in  the  same 
streets ;  but  there  again  came  the  sense  of  strangeness 
which  only  one  who  has  lived  in  New  York  could  ap 
preciate.  The  streets  were  the  same;  but  to  her  they 
seemed  as  the  streets  of  another  city,  because  she  was 
now  seeing  in  them  none  of  the  things  she  used  to  see, 
was  seeing  instead  kinds  of  people,  aspects  of  human 
beings,,  modes  of  feeling  and  acting  and  existing  of 
which  she  used  to  have  not  the  faintest  knowledge. 
There  were  as  many  worlds  as  kinds  of  people.  Thus, 
though  we  all  talk  to  each  other  as  if  about  the  same 
world,  each  of  us  is  thinking  of  his  own  kind  of  world, 
the  only  one  he  sees.  And  that  is  why  there  can  never 
be  sympathy  and  understanding  among  the  children 
of  men  until  there  is  some  approach  to  resemblance  in 
their  various  lots ;  for  the  lot  determines  the  man. 

"On  Mr.  Palmer's  recommendation,"  said  she;  "I'll 

124. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


give  you  two  days  to  pay.  My  terms  are  in  advance. 
But  Mr.  Palmer's  a  dear  friend  of  mine." 

She  was  a  short  woman,  with  a  monstrous  bust  and 
almost  no  hips.  Her  thin  hair  was  dyed  and  frizzled, 
and  her  voice  sounded  as  if  it  found  its  way  out  of 
her  fat  lips  after  a  long  struggle  to  pass  through  the 
fat  of  her  throat  and  chest.  Her  second  chin  lay  upon 
her  bosom  in  a  soft  swollen  bag  that  seemed  to  be  sus 
pended  from  her  ears.  Her  eyes  were  hard  and  evil, 
of  a  brownish  gray.  She  affected  suavity  and  elabo 
rate  politeness ;  but  if  the  least  thing  disturbed  her, 
she  became  red  and  coarse  of  voice  and  vile  of  lan 
guage.  The  vile  language  and  the  nature  of  her  busi 
ness  and  her  private  life  aside,  she  would  have  com 
pared  favorably  with  anyone  in  the  class  of  those  who 
deal — as  merchants,  as  landlords,  as  boarding-house 
keepers — with  the  desperately  different  classes  of  un 
certain  income. 

After  the  talk  with  Maud  about  the  realities  of  life 
as  it  is  lived  by  several  hundred  thousand  of  the  in 
habitants  of  Manhattan  Island,  Susan  had  not  the 
least  disposition  to  test  by  defiance  the  truth  of  Freddie 
Palmer's  plain  statement  as  to  his  powers.  And  at 
half-past  seven  Maud  came.  At  once  she  inspected 
Susan's  face. 

"Might  be  a  bit  worse,"  she  said. 

Susan  began  letting  down  her  hair. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  cried  Maud  impa 
tiently.  "We're  late  now  and — - — " 

"I  don't  like  the  way  my  hair's  done,"  cried  Susan. 

"Why,  it  was  all  right — real  swell — good  as  a  hair 
dresser  could  have  done." 

But  Susan  went  on  at  her  task.  Ever  since  she 
came  East  she  had  worn  it  in  a  braid  looped  at  the 

21  125 


SUSAN  LENOX 


back  of  her  head.  She  proceeded  to  change  this  rad 
ically.  With  Maud  forgetting  to  be  impatient  in  ad 
miration  of  her  swift  fingers  she  made  a  coiffure  much 
more  elaborate — wide  waves  out  from  her  temples  and 
a  big  round  loose  knot  behind.  She  was  well  content 
with  the  result — especially  when  she  got  her  veil  on  and 
it  was  assisting  in  the  change. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  said  to  Maud  when  she 
was  ready. 

"My,  but  you  look  different !"  exclaimed  Maud.  "A 
lot  dressier — and  sportier.  More — more  Broadway." 

"That's  it — Broadway,"  said  Susan.  She  had  al 
ways  avoided  looking  like  Broadway.  Now,  she  would 
take  the  opposite  tack.  Not  loud  toilets — for  they 
would  defeat  her  purpose.  Not  loud — just  common. 

"But,"  added  Maud,  "you  do  look  swell  about  the 
feet.  Where  do  you  get  your  shoes?  No,  I  guess 
it's  the  feet." 

While  Susan,  later  on  in  the  back  of  a  saloon,  was 
having  two  more  drinks  Maud  talked  about  Freddie. 
She  seemed  to  know  little  about  him,  though  he  was 
evidently  one  of  the  conspicuous  figures.  He  had 
started  in  the  lower  East  Side — -had  been  leader  of  one 
of  those  gangs  that  infest  tenement  districts — the 
young  men  who  refuse  to  submit  to  the  common  lot  of 
stupid  and  badly  paid  toil  and  try  to  fight  their 
way  out  by  the  quick  method  of  violence  instead 
of  the  slower  but  surer  methods  of  robbing  the  poor 
through  a  store  of  some  kind.  These  gangs 
were  thieves,  blackmailers,  kidnappers  of  young  girls 
for  houses  of  prostitution,  repeaters.  Most  of  them 
graduated  into  habitual  jailbirds,  a  few — the  clev 
erest — became  saloonkeepers  and  politicians  and 

126 


SUSAN  LENOX 


high-class  professional  gamblers  and   race  track  men. 

Freddie,  Maud  explained,  was  not  much  over  twen 
ty-five,  yet  was  already  well  up  toward  the  place 
where  successful  gang  leaders  crossed  over  into  the 
respectable  class — that  is,  grafted  in  "big  figures." 
He  was  a  great  reader,  said  Maud,  and  had  taken 
courses  at  some  college.  "They  say  he  and  his  gang 
used  to  kill  somebody  nearly  every  night.  Then  he 
got  a  lot  of  money  out  of  one  of  his  jobs — some  say 
it  was  a  bank  robbery  and  some  say  they  killed  a 
miner  who  was  drunk  with  a  big  roll  on  him.  Any 
how,  Freddie  got  next  to  Finnegan — he's  worth  sev 
eral  millions  that  he  made  out  of  policy  shops  and 
poolrooms,  and  contracts  and  such  political  things. 
So  he's  in  right — *and  he's  got  the  brains.  He's  a 
good  one  for  working  out  schemes  for  making  people 
work  hard  and  bring  him  their  money.  And  every 
body's  afraid  of  him  because  he  won't  stop  at  nothing 
and  is  too  slick  to  get  caught." 

Maud  broke  off  abruptly  and  rose,  warned  by  the 
glazed  look  in  Susan's  eyes. 

"How  many  girls  has  Freddie  got?" 

"Search  me.  Not  many  that  he'd  speak  to  himself. 
Jim's  his  wardman — does  his  collecting  for  him. 
Freddie's  above  most  of  the  men  in  this  business.  The 
others  are  about  like  Jim — tough  straight  through, 
but  Freddie's  a  kind  of  a  pullman.  The  other  men — 
even  Jim — hate  him  for  being  such  a  snare  and  being 
able  to  hide  it  that  he's  in  such  a  low  business. 
They'd  have  done  him  up  long  ago,  if  they  could.  But 
he's  too  wise  for  them.  That's  why  they  have  to  do 
what  he  says.  I  tell  you,  you're  in  right,  for  sure. 
You'll  have  Freddie  eating  out  of  your  hand,  if  you 
play  a  cool  hand." 

127 


VII 

EACH  morning  she  awoke  in  a  state  of  depres 
sion  so  horrible  that  she  wondered  why  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  plan  suicide. 

Once  a  young  doctor  said  to  her : 

"What  a  heart  action  you  have  got!  Let  me  listen 
to  that  again." 

"Is  it  all  wrong?"  asked  Susan,  as  he  pressed  his  ear 
against  her  chest. 

"You  ask  that  as  if  you  rather  hoped  it  was." 

"I  do— and  I  don't." 

"Well,"  said  he,  after  listening  for  a  third  time, 
"you'll  never  die  of  heart  trouble.  I  never  heard  a 
heart  with  such  a  grand  action — like  a  big,  powerful 
pump,  built  to  last  forever.  You're  never  ill,  are  you?" 

"Not  thus  far." 

"And  you'll  have  a  hard  time  making  yourself  ill. 
Health?  Why,  your  health  must  be  perfect.  Let  me 
see."  And  he  proceeded  to  thump  and  press  upon  her 
chest  with  an  expertness  that  proclaimed  the  student 
of  medicine.  He  was  all  interest  and  enthusiasm,  took 
a  pencil,  and,  spreading  a  sheet  upon  her  chest  over  her 
heart,  drew  its  outlines.  "There!"  he  cried. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Susan.     "I  don't  understand." 

The  young  man  drew  a  second  and  much  smaller 
heart  within  the  outline  of  hers.  "This,"  he  explained, 
"is  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  heart.  You  can  see 
for  yourself  that  yours  is  fully  one-fourth  bigger  than 
the  normal." 

"What  of  it?"  said  Susan. 

128 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Why,  health  and  strength — and  vitality — courage 
— hope — all  one-fourth  above  the  ordinary  allowance. 
Yes,  more  than  a  fourth.  I  envy  you.  You  ought  to 
live  long,  stay  young  until  you're  very  old — and  get 
pretty  much  anything  you  please.  You  don't  belong 
to  this  life.  Some  accident,  I  guess.  Every  once  in  a 
while  I  run  across  a  case  something  like  yours.  You'll 
go  back  where  you  belong.  This  is  a  dip,  not  a  drop." 

"You  sound  like  a  fortune-teller."  She  was  smiling 
mockingly.  But  in  truth  she  had  never  in  all  her  life 
heard  words  that  thrilled  her  so,  that  heartened  her  so. 

"I  am.  A  scientific  fortune-teller.  And  what  that 
kind  says  comes  true,  barring  accidents.  No,  nothing 
can  stop  you  but  death — unless  you're  far  less  intelli 
gent  than  you  look.  Oh,  yes— death  and  one  other 
thing." 

"Drink."     And  he  looked  shrewdly  at  her. 

But  drink  she  must.  And  each  day,  as  soon  as  she 
dressed  and  was  out  in  the  street,  she  began  to  drink, 
and  kept  it  up  until  she  had  driven  off  the  depression 
and  had  got  herself  into  the  mood  of  recklessness  in 
which  she  found  a  certain  sardonic  pleasure  in  out 
raging  her  own  sensibilities.  There  is  a  stage  in  a 
drinking  career  when  the  man  or  the  woman  becomes 
depraved  and  ugly  as  soon  as  the  liquor  takes  effect. 
But  she  was  far  from  this  advanced  stage.  Her  dis 
position  was,  if  anything,  more  sweet  and  generous 
when  she  was  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  The  whis 
key — she  almost  always  drank  whiskey — seemed  to  act 
directly  and  only  upon  the  nerves  that  ached  and 
throbbed  when  she  was  sober,  the  nerves  that  made  the 
life  she  was  leading  seem  loathsome  beyond  the  power 
of  habit  to  accustom.  With  these  nerves  stupefied,  her 
natural  gayety  asserted  itself,  and  a  fondness  for  quiet 

129 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  subtle  mockery — her  indulgence  in  it  did  not  make 
her  popular  with  vain  men  sufficiently  acute  to  catch 
her  meaning. 

By  observation  and  practice  she  was  soon  able  to 
measure  the  exact  amount  of  liquor  that  was  necessary 
to  produce  the  proper  state  of  intoxication  at  the  hour 
for  going  "on  duty."  That  gayety  of  hers  was  of  the 
surface  only.  Behind  it  her  real  self  remained  indif 
ferent  or  somber  or  sardonic,  according  to  her  mood  of 
the  day.  And  she  had  the  sense  of  being  in  the  grasp 
of  a  hideous,  fascinating  nightmare,  of  being  dragged 
through  some  dreadful  probation  from  which  she  would 
presently  emerge  to  ascend  to  the  position  she  would 
have  earned  by  her  desperate  fortitude.  The  past — 
unreal.  The  present — a  waking  dream.  But  the 
future — ah,  the  future! 

He  has  not  candidly  explored  far  beneath  the  surface 
of  things  who  does  not  know  the  strange  allure,  charm 
even,  that  many  loathsome  things  possess.  And  drink 
is  peculiarly  fitted  to  bring  out  this  perverse  quality — 
drink  that  blurs  all  the  conventionalities,  even  those 
built  up  into  moral  ideas  by  centuries  and  ages  of 
unbroken  custom.  The  human  animal,  for  all  its  pre 
tenses  of  inflexibility,  is  almost  infinitely  adaptable — 
that  is  why  it  has  risen  in  several  million  years  of  evolu 
tion  from  about  the  humblest  rank  in  the  mammalian 
family  to  overlordship  of  the  universe.  Still,  it  is 
doubtful  if,  without  drink  to  help  her,  a  girl  of  Susan's 
intelligence  and  temperament  would  have  been  apt  to 
endure.  She  would  probably  have  chosen  the  alterna 
tive — death.  Hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  of  girls, 
at  least  her  equals  in  sensibility,  are  caught  in  the 
same  calamity  every  year,  tens  of  thousands,  ever  more 
and  more  as  our  civilization  transforms  under  the  pres- 

130 


SUSAN  LENOX 


sure  of  industrialism,  are  caught  in  the  similar  calami 
ties  of  soul-destroying  toil.  And  only  the  few  sur 
vive  who  have  perfect  health  and  abounding  vitality. 
Susan's  iron  strength  enabled  her  to  live;  but  it  was 
drink  that  enabled  her  to  endure.  Beyond  question  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  that  could  now  be  conferred 
upon  the  race  would  be  to  cure  it  of  the  drink  evil.  But 
at  the  same  time,  if  drink  were  taken  away  before  the 
causes  of  drink  were  removed,  there  would  be  an  ap 
palling  increase  in  suicide — in  insanity,  in  the  general 
total  of  human  misery.  For  while  drink  retards  the 
growth  of  intelligent  effort  to  end  the  stupidities  in  the 
social  system,  does  it  not  also  help  men  and  women  to 
bear  the  consequences  of  those  stupidities?  Our  crude 
and  undeveloped  new  civilization,  strapping  men  and 
women  and  children  to  the  machines  and  squeezing  all 
the  energy  out  of  them,  all  the  capacity  for  vital  life, 
casts  them  aside  as  soon  as  they  are  useless  but  long 
before  they  are  dead.  How  unutterably  wretched  they 
would  be  without  drink  to  give  them  illusions ! 

Susan  grew  fond  of  cigarettes,  fond  of  whiskey ;  to 
the  rest  she  after  a  few  weeks  became  numb — no  new 
or  strange  phenomenon  in  a  world  where  people  with  a 
cancer  or  other  hideous  running  sore  or  some  gross  and 
frightful  deformity  of  fat  or  excrescence  are  seen 
laughing,  joining  freely  and  comfortably  in  the  com 
pany  of  the  unafflicted.  In  her  affliction  Susan  at  least 
saw  only  those  affected  like  herself — and  that  helped 
not  a  little,  helped  the  whiskey  to  confuse  and  distort 
her  outlook  upon  life. 

The  old  Cartesian  formula — "I  think,  therefore,  I 
am" — would  come  nearer  to  expressing  a  truth,  were 
it  reversed— "I  am,  therefore,  I  think."  Our  charac 
ters  are  compressed,  and  our  thoughts  bent  by  our  en- 

131 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  subtle  mockery — her  indulgence  in  it  did  not  make 
her  popular  with  vain  men  sufficiently  acute  to  catch 
her  meaning. 

By  observation  and  practice  she  was  soon  able  to 
measure  the  exact  amount  of  liquor  that  was  necessary 
to  produce  the  proper  state  of  intoxication  at  the  hour 
for  going  "on  duty."  That  gayety  of  hers  was  of  the 
surface  only.  Behind  it  her  real  self  remained  indif 
ferent  or  somber  or  sardonic,  according  to  her  mood  of 
the  day.  And  she  had  the  sense  of  being  in  the  grasp 
of  a  hideous,  fascinating  nightmare,  of  being  dragged 
through  some  dreadful  probation  from  which  she  would 
presently  emerge  to  ascend  to  the  position  she  would 
have  earned  by  her  desperate  fortitude.  The  past — 
unreal.  The  present — a  waking  dream.  But  the 
future — ah,  the  future! 

He  has  not  candidly  explored  far  beneath  the  surface 
of  things  who  does  not  know  the  strange  allure,  charm 
even,  that  many  loathsome  things  possess.  And  drink 
is  peculiarly  fitted  to  bring  out  this  perverse  quality — 
drink  that  blurs  all  the  conventionalities,  even  those 
built  up  into  moral  ideas  by  centuries  and  ages  of 
unbroken  custom.  The  human  animal,  for  all  its  pre 
tenses  of  inflexibility,  is  almost  infinitely  adaptable — • 
that  is  why  it  has  risen  in  several  million  years  of  evolu 
tion  from  about  the  humblest  rank  in  the  mammalian 
family  to  overlordship  of  the  universe.  Still,  it  is 
doubtful  if,  without  drink  to  help  her,  a  girl  of  Susan's 
intelligence  and  temperament  would  have  been  apt  to 
endure.  She  would  probably  have  chosen  the  alterna 
tive — death.  Hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  of  girls, 
at  least  her  equals  in  sensibility,  are  caught  in  the 
same  calamity  every  year,  tens  of  thousands,  ever  more 
and  more  as  our  civilization  transforms  under  the  pres- 

130 


SUSAN  LENOX 


sure  of  industrialism,  are  caught  in  the  similar  calami 
ties  of  soul-destroying  toil.  And  only  the  few  sur 
vive  who  have  perfect  health  and  abounding  vitality. 
Susan's  iron  strength  enabled  her  to  live;  but  it  was 
drink  that  enabled  her  to  endure.  Beyond  question  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  that  could  now  be  conferred 
upon  the  race  would  be  to  cure  it  of  the  drink  evil.  But 
at  the  same  time,  if  drink  were  taken  away  before  the 
causes  of  drink  were  removed,  there  would  be  an  ap 
palling  increase  in  suicide — in  insanity,  in  the  general 
total  of  human  misery.  For  while  drink  retards  the 
growth  of  intelligent  effort  to  end  the  stupidities  in  the 
social  system,  does  it  not  also  help  men  and  women  to 
bear  the  consequences  of  those  stupidities?  Our  crude 
and  undeveloped  new  civilization,  strapping  men  and 
women  and  children  to  the  machines  and  squeezing  all 
the  energy  out  of  them,  all  the  capacity  for  vital  life, 
casts  them  aside  as  soon  as  they  are  useless  but  long 
before  they  are  dead.  How  unutterably  wretched  they 
would  be  without  drink  to  give  them  illusions ! 

Susan  grew  fond  of  cigarettes,  fond  of  whiskey ;  to 
the  rest  she  after  a  few  weeks  became  numb — no  new 
or  strange  phenomenon  in  a  world  where  people  with  a 
cancer  or  other  hideous  running  sore  or  some  gross  and 
frightful  deformity  of  fat  or  excrescence  are  seen 
laughing,  joining  freely  and  comfortably  in  the  com 
pany  of  the  unafflicted.  In  her  affliction  Susan  at  least 
saw  only  those  affected  like  herself — and  that  helped 
not  a  little,  helped  the  whiskey  to  confuse  and  distort 
her  outlook  upon  life. 

The  old  Cartesian  formula — "I  think,  therefore,  I 
am" — would  come  nearer  to  expressing  a  truth,  were 
it  reversed — "I  am,  therefore,  I  think."  Our  charac 
ters  are  compressed,  and  our  thoughts  bent  by  our  en- 

131 


SUSAN  LENOX 


vironment.  And  most  of  us  are  unconscious  of  our  sla 
very  because  our  environment  remains  unchanged  from 
birth  until  death,  and  so  seems  the  whole  universe  to  us. 

In  spite  of  her  life,  in  spite  of  all  she  did  to  disguise 
herself,  there  persisted  in  her  face — even  when  she  was 
dazed  or  giddied  or  stupefied  with  drink — the  expres 
sion  of  the  woman  on  the  right  side  of  the  line. 
Whether  it  was  something  in  her  character,  whether  it 
was  not  rather  due  to  superiority  of  breeding  and  intel 
ligence,  would  be  difficult  to  say.  However,  there  was 
the  different  look  that  irritated  many  of  the  other  girls, 
interfered  with  her  business  and  made  her  feel  a  hypo 
crite.  She  heard  so  much  about  the  paleness  of  her 
lips  that  she  decided  to  end  that  comment  by  using 
paint — the  durable  kind  Ida  had  recommended.  When 
her  lips  flamed  carmine,  a  strange  and  striking  effect 
resulted.  The  sad  sweet  pensiveness  of  her  eyes — the 
pallor  of  her  clear  skin — then,  that  splash  of  bright 
red,  artificial,  bold,  defiant — the  contrast  of  the 
combination  seemed  somehow  to  tell  the  story  of  her 
life — her  past  no  less  than  her  present.  And  when  her 
beauty  began  to  come  back — for,  hard  though  her  life 
was,  it  was  a  life  of  good  food,  of  plenty  of  sleep,  of 
much  open  air ;  so  it  put  no  such  strain  upon  her  as 
had  the  life  of  the  factory  and  the  tenement — when  her 
beauty  came  back,  the  effect  of  that  contrast  of  scarlet 
splash  against  the  sad  purity  of  pallid  cheeks  and  vio 
let-gray  eyes  became  a  mark  of  individuality,  of  dis 
tinction.  It  was  not  long  before  Susan  would  have  as 
soon  thought  of  issuing  forth  with  her  body  uncovered 
as  with  her  lips  unrouged. 

She  turned  away  from  men  who  sought  her  a  second 
time.  She  was  difficult  to  find,  she  went  on  "duty"  only 
enough  days  each  week  to  earn  a  low  average  of  what 


SUSAN  LENOX 


was  expected  from  the  girls  by  their  protectors.  Yet 
she  got  many  unexpected  presents — and  so  had  money 
to  lend  to  the  other  girls,  who  soon  learned  how  "easy" 
she  was. 

Maud,  sometimes  at  her  own  prompting,  sometimes 
prompted  by  Jim,  who  was  prompted  by  Freddie — 
warned  her  every  few  days  that  she  was  skating  on  the 
thinnest  of  ice.  But  she  went  her  way.  Not  until  she 
accompanied  a  girl  to  an  opium  joint  to  discover 
whether  dope  had  the  merits  claimed  for  it  as  a  dead- 
ener  of  pain  and  a  producer  of  happiness — not  until 
then  did  Freddie  come  in  person. 

"I  hear,"  said  he,  "that  you  come  into  the  hotel 
drunk." 

"I  must  drink,"  said  Susan. 

"You  must  stop  drink,"  retorted  he,  amiable  in  his 
terrible  way.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  have  you  pinched  and 
sent  up.  That'll  bring  you  to  your  senses." 

"I  must  drink,"  said  Susan. 

"Then  I  must  have  you  pinched,"  said  he,  with  his 
mocking  laugh.  "Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  went  on. 

She  had  laughed  as  he  spoke. 

Freddie  nodded  approval.  "You're  getting  broken 
in.  Don't  take  yourself  so  seriously.  After  all,  what 
are  you  doing  ?  Why,  learning  to  live  like  a  man." 

She  found  this  new  point  of  view  interesting — and 
true,  too.  Like  a  man — like  all  men,  except  possibly 
a  few— not  enough  exceptions  to  change  the  rule.  Like 
a  man ;  getting  herself  hardened  up  to  the  point  where 
she  could  take  part  in  the  cruel  struggle  on  equal  terms 
with  the  men.  It  wasn't  their  difference  of  body  any 
more  than  it  was  their  difference  of  dress  that  handi-< 
capped  women ;  it  was  the  idea  behind  skirt  and  sex — 
and  she  was  getting  rid  of  that.  .  .  . 

133 


SUSAN  LENOX 


The  theory  was  admirable;  but  it  helped  her  not  at 
all  in  practice.  She  continued  to  keep  to  the  darkness, 
to  wait  in  the  deep  doorways,  so  far  as  she  could  in  her 
"business  hours,"  and  to  repulse  advances  in  the  day 
time  or  in  public  places — and  to  drink.  She  did  not  go 
again  to  the  opium  joint,  and  she  resisted  the  nightly 
offers  of  girls  and  their  "gentlemen  friends"  to  try 
cocaine  in  its  various  forms.  "Dope,"  she  saw,  was 
the  medicine  of  despair.  And  she  was  far  from  despair. 
Had  she  not  youth?  Had  she  not  health  and  intelli 
gence  and  good  looks?  Some  day  she  would  have  fin 
ished  her  apprenticeship.  Then — the  career ! 

Freddie  let  her  alone  for  nearly  a  month,  though 
she  was  earning  less  than  fifty  dollars  a  week — which 
meant  only  thirty  for  him.  He  had  never  "collected" 
from  her  directly,  but  always  through  Jim;  and  she 
had  now  learned  enough  of  the  methods  of  the  system 
of  which  she  was  one  of  the  thousands  of  slaves  to 
appreciate  that  she  was  treated  by  Jim  with  unique 
consideration.  Not  only  by  the  surly  and  brutal  Jim, 
but  also  by  the  police,  who  oppressed  in  petty  ways 
wherever  they  dared  because  they  hated  Freddie's  sys 
tem,  which  took  away  from  them  a  part  of  the  graft 
they  regarded  as  rightfully  theirs. 

Yes,  rightfully  theirs.  And  anyone  disposed  to  be 
critical  of  police  morality — or  of  Freddie  Palmer 
morality — in  this  matter  of  graft  would  do  well  to 
pause  and  consider  the  source  of  his  own  income  before 
he  waxes  too  eloquent  and  too  virtuous.  Graft  is  one 
of  those  general  words  that  mean  everything  and  noth 
ing.  What  is  graft  and  what  is  honest  income?  Just 
where  shall  we  draw  the  line  between  rightful  exploita 
tion  of  our  fellow-beings  through  their  necessities  and 
their  ignorance  of  their  helplessness,  and  wrongful  ex- 

134 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ploitation?  Do  attempts  to  draw  that  line  resolve 
down  to  making  virtuous  whatever  I  may  appropriate 
and  vicious  whatever  is  appropriated  in  ways  other 
than  mine?  And  if  so,  are  not  the  police  and  the 
Palmers  entitled  to  their  day  in  the  moral  court  no  less 
than  the  tariff-baron  and  market-cornerer,  the  herder 
and  driver  of  wage  slaves,  the  retail  artists  in  cold 
storage  filth,  short  weight  and  shoddy  goods?  How 
ever,  "we  must  draw  the  line  somewhere"  or  there  will 
be  no  such  thing  as  morality  under  our  social  system. 
So  why  not  draw  it  at  anything  the  other  fellow  does 
to  make  money.  In  adopting  this  simple  rule,  we  not 
only  preserve  the  moralities  from  destruction,  but  also 
establish  our  own  virtue  and  the  other  fellow's  villainy. 
Truly,  never  is  the  human  race  so  delightfully,  so 
unconsciously,  amusing  as  when  it  discusses  right  and 
wrong. 

When  she  saw  Freddie  again,  he  was  far  from 
sober.  He  showed  it  by  his  way  of  beginning.  Said 
he: 

"I've  got  to  hand  you  a  line  of  rough  talk,  Queenie. 
I  want  you  to  promise  me  you'll  take  a  brace." 

No  answer. 

"You  won't  promise?" 

"No — because  I  don't  intend  to.  I'm  doing  the  best 
I  can." 

"You  think  I'm  a  good  thing.  You  think  I'll  take 
anything  off  you,  because  I'm  stuck  on  you — and  ap 
preciate  that  you  ain't  on  the  same  level  with  the  rest 
of  these  heifers.  Well — I'll  not  let  any  woman  con 
me.  I  never  have.  I  never  will.  And  I'll  make  you 
realize  that  you're  not  square  with  me.  I'll  let  you 
get  a  taste  of  life  as  it  is  when  a  girl  hasn't  got  a 
friend  with  a  pull." 

135 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"As  you  please,"  said  Susan  indifferently.  "I  don't 
in  the  least  care  what  happens  to  me." 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  cried  he,  enraged.  "I'll  give 
you  a  week  to  brace  up  in." 

The  look  he  shot  at  her  by  way  of  finish  to  his  sen 
tence  was  menacing  enough.  But  she  was  not  dis 
turbed ;  these  signs  of  anger  tended  to  confirm  her  in 
her  sense  of  security  from  him.  For  it  was  wholly 
unlike  the  Freddie  Palmer  the  rest  of  the  world  knew, 
to  act  in  this  irresolute  and  stormy  way.  She  knew 
that  Palmer,  in  his  fashion,  cared  for  her — better  still, 
liked  her — liked  to  talk  with  her,  liked  to  show — and 
to  develop — the  aspiring  side  of  his  interesting,  un 
usual  nature  for  her  benefit. 

A  week  passed,  during  which  she  did  not  see  him. 
But  she  heard  that  he  was  losing  on  both  the  cards 
and  the  horses,  and  was  drinking  wildly.  A  week — ten 
days — then 

One  night,  as  she  came  out  of  a  saloon  a  block  or 
so  down  Seventh  Avenue  from  Forty-second,  a  fly  cop 
seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"Come  along,"  said  he,  roughly.  "You're  drinking 
and  soliciting.  I've  got  to  clear  the  streets  of  some  of 
these  tarts.  It's  got  so  decent  people  can't  move  with 
out  falling  over  'em." 

Susan  had  not  lived  in  the  tenement  districts  where 
the  ignorance  and  the  .helplessness  and  the  lack  of  a 
voice  that  can  make  itself  heard  among  the  ruling 
classes  make  the  sway  of  the  police  absolute  and  there 
fore  tyrannical — she  had  not  lived  there  without  get 
ting  something  of  that  dread  and  horror  of  the  police 
which  to  people  of  the  upper  classes  seems  childish  or 
evidence  of  secret  criminal  hankerings.  And  this  nerv 
ousness  had  latterly  been  increased  to  terror  by  what 

136 


SUSAN  LENOX 


she  had  learned  from  her  fellow-outcasts — the  hideous 
tales  of  oppression,  of  robbery,  of  bodily  and  moral 
degradation.  But  all  this  terror  had  been  purely  fanci 
ful,  as  any  emotion  not  of  experience  proves  to  be  when 
experience  evokes  the  reality.  At  that  touch,  at  the 
sound  of  those  rough  words — at  that  reality  of  the 
terror  she  had  imagined  from  the  days  when  she  went 
to  work  at  Matson's  and  to  live  with  the  Brashears, 
she  straightway  lost  consciousness.  When  her  senses 
returned  she  was  in  a  cell,  lying  on  a  wooden  benclu 

There  must  have  been  some  sort  of  wild  struggle; 
for  her  clothes  were  muddy,  her  hat  was  crushed  into 
shapelessness,  her  veil  was  so  torn  that  she  had  diffi 
culty  in  arranging  it  to  act  as  any  sort  of  concealment. 
Though  she  had  no  mirror  at  which  to  discover  the 
consolation,  she  need  have  had  no  fear  of  being  recog 
nized,  so  distorted  were  all  her  features  by  the  frightful 
paroxysms  of  grief  that  swept  and  ravaged  her  body 
that  night.  She  fainted  again  when  they  led  her  out 
to  put  her  in  the  wagon. 

She  fainted  a  third  time  when  she  heard  her  name — 
"Queenie  Brown" — bellowed  out  by  the  court  officer. 
They  shook  her  into  consciousness,  led  her  to  the  court 
room.  She  was  conscious  of  a  stifling  heat,  of  a  curious 
crowd  staring  at  her  with  eyes  which  seemed  to  bore 
red  hot  holes  into  her  flesh.  As  she  stood  before  the 
judge,  with  head  limp  upon  her  bosom,  she  heard  in  her 
ear  a  rough  voice  bawling,  "You're  discharged.  The 
judge  says  don't  come  here  again."  And  she  was 
pushed  through  an  iron  gate.  She  walked  unsteadily 
up  the  aisle,  between  two  masses  of  those  burning- 
eyed  human  monsters.  She  felt  the  cold  outside  air 
like  a  vast  drench  of  icy  water  flung  upon  her.  If  it 
had  been  raining,  she  might  have  gone  toward  the  river. 

137 


SUSAN  LENOX 


But  than  that  day  New  York  had  never  been  more 
radiantly  the  City  of  the  Sun.  How  she  got  home  she 
never  knew,  but  late  in  the  afternoon  she  realized  that 
she  was  in  her  own  room. 

Hour  after  hour  she  lay  upon  the  bed,  body  and 
mind  inert.  Helpless — no  escape — no  courage  to  live 
— yet  no  wish  to  die.  How  much  longer  would  it  last? 
Surely  the  waking  from  this  dream  must  come  soon. 

About  noon  the  next  day  Freddie  came.  "I  let  you 
off  easy,"  said  he.  "Have  you  been  drinking  again?" 

"No,"  she  muttered. 

He  watched  her  with  baffled,  longing  eyes.  "What 
is  it,"  he  muttered,  "that's  so  damn  peculiar  about 
you?" 

It  was  the  question  every  shrewd,  observant  person 
who  saw  her  put  to  himself  in  one  way  or  another ;  and 
there  was  excellent  reason  why  this  should  have  been. 

Life  has  a  certain  set  of  molds — lawyer,  financier, 
gambler,  preacher,  fashionable  woman,  prostitute,  do 
mestic  woman,  laborer,  clerk,  and  so  on  through  a  not 
extensive  list  of  familiar  types  with  which  we  all  soon 
become  acquainted.  And  to  one  or  another  of  these 
patterns  life  fits  each  of  us  as  we  grow  up.  Not  one 
in  ten  thousand  glances  into  human  faces  is  arrested 
because  it  has  lit  upon  a  personality  that  cannot  be 
immediately  located,  measured,  accounted  for.  The 
reason  for  this  sterility  of  variety  which  soon  makes  the 
world  rather  monotonous  to  the  seeing  eye  is  that  few 
of  us  are  born  with  any  considerable  amount  of  per 
sonality,  and  what  little  we  have  is  speedily  suppressed 
by  a  system  of  training  which  is  throughout  based 
upon  an  abhorrence  of  originality.  We  obey  the  law 
of  nature — and  nature  so  abhors  variety  that,  when- 

138 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


ever  a  variation  from  a  type  happens,  she  tries  to  kill 
it,  and,  that  failing,  reproduces  it  a  myriad  times  to 
make  it  a  type.  When  an  original  man  or  woman 
appears  and  all  the  strenuous  effort  to  suppress  him 
or  her  fails,  straightway  spring  up  a  thousand  imita 
tors  and  copiers,  and  the  individuality  is  lost  in  the 
school,  the  fashion,  the  craze.  We  have  not  the  cour 
age  to  be  ourselves,  even  where  there  is  anything  in  us 
that  might  be  developed  into  something  distinctive 
enough  to  win  us  the  rank  of  real  identity.  Individu 
ality — distinction — where  it  does  exist,  almost  never 
shows  until  experience  brings  it  out — just  as  up  to  a 
certain  stage  the  embryo  of  any  animal  is  like  that  of 
every  other  animal,  though  there  is  latent  in  it  the 
most  positive  assertion  of  race  and  sex,  of  family,  type, 
and  so  on. 

Susan  had  from  childhood  possessed  certain  quali 
ties  of  physical  beauty,  of  spiritedness,  of  facility  in 
mind  and  body — the  not  uncommon  characteristic  of 
the  child  that  is  the  flower  of  passionate  love.  But  now 
there  was  beginning  to  show  in  her  a  radical  difference 
from  the  rest  of  the  crowd  pouring  through  the  streets 
of  the  city.  It  made  the  quicker  observers  in  the  pass 
ing  throng  turn  the  head  for  a  second  and  wondering 
glance.  Most  of  them  assumed  they  had  been  stirred 
by  her  superiority  of  face  and  figure.  But  striking 
faces  and  figures  of  the  various  comely  types  are  fre 
quent  in  the  streets  of  New  York  and  of  several  other 
American  cities.  The  truth  was  that  they  were  inter 
ested  by  her  expression — an  elusive  expression  telling 
of  a  soul  that  was  being  moved  to  its  depths  by  experi 
ence  which  usually  finds  and  molds  mere  passive  ma 
terial.  This  expression  was  as  evident  in  her  mouth 
as  in  her  eyes,  in  her  profile  as  in  her  full  face.  And 

139 


SUSAN  LE..OX 


as  she  sat  there  on  aie  edge  of  the  bed  twisting  up  her 
thick  dark  hair,  it  was  this  expression  that  discon 
certed  Freddie  Palmer,  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  con 
temptuous  dealings  with  the  female  sex.  In  his  eyes 
was  a  ferocious  desire  to  seize  her  and  try  to  conquer 
and  to  possess. 

She  had  become  almost  unconscious  of  his  presence. 
He  startled  her  by  suddenly  crying,  "Oh,  you  go  to 
hell!"  and  flinging  from  the  room,  crashing  the  door 
shut  behind  him. 

Susan's  first  horror  of  the  men  she  met — men  of  all 
classes —  was  rapidly  modified  into  an  inconsistent, 
therefore  characteristically  human,  mingling  of  horror 
and  tolerance.  Nobody,  nothing,  was  either  good  or 
bad,  but  all  veered  like  weathercocks  in  the  shifting 
wind.  She  decided  that  people  were  steadily  good  only 
where  their  lot  happened  to  be  cast  in  a  place  in  which 
the  good  wind  held  steadily,  and  that  those  who  were 
usually  bad  simply  had  the  misfortune  to  have  to  live 
where  the  prevailing  winds  were  bad. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  handsome,  well  educated, 
well  mannered  young  prize-fighter,  Ned  Ballou,  who 
was  Estelle's  "friend."  Ballou,  big  and  gentle  and 
as  incapable  of  bad  humor  as  of  constancy  or  of  hon 
esty  about  money  matters,  fought  under  the  name  of 
Joe  Geary,  and  was  known  as  Upper  Cut  Joe  because 
usually,  in  the  third  round,  never  later  than  the  fifth, 
he  gave  the  knockout  to  his  opponent  by  a  cruelly 
swift  and  savage  uppercut.  He  had  educated  himself 
marvelously  well.  But  he  had  been  brought  up  among 
thieves  and  had  by  some  curious  freak  never  learned  to 
know  what  a  moral  sense  was,  which  is  one — and  a 
not  unattractive — step  deeper  down  than  those  who 

140 


SUSAN  LENOX 


know  what  a  moral  sense  is  but  never  use  it.  At  supper 
in  Gaffney's  he  related  to  Susan  and  Estelle  how  he 
had  won  his  greatest  victory — the  victory  of  Terry  the 
Cyclone,  that  had  lifted  him  up  into  the  class  of  secure 
money-makers.  He  told  how  he  always  tried  to  "rattle" 
his  opponent  by  talking  to  him,  by  pouring  out  in  an 
undertone  a  stream  of  gibes,  jeers,  insults.  The  after 
noon  of  the  fight  Terry's  first-born  had  died,  but  the 
money  for  the  funeral  expenses,  and  to  save  the  wife 
from  the  horrors  and  dangers  of  the  free  wards  had 
to  be  earned.  Joe  Geary  knew  that  he  must  win  this 
fight  or  drop  into  the  working  or  the  criminal  class. 
Terry  was  a  "hard  one";  so  circumstances  compelled 
those  desperate  measures  which  great  men,  from  finan 
ciers  and  generals  down  to  prize-fighters,  do  not  shrink 
from — else  they  would  not  be  great,  but  small. 

As  soon  as  he  was  facing  Terry  in  the  ring  Joe — 
so  he  related  with  pride  in  his  cleverness — began  to 
"guy"— "Well,  you  Irish  fake— so  the  kid's  dead— eh?" 
and  so  on.  And  Terry,  insane  with  grief  and  fury, 
fought  wild — and  Joe  became  a  champion. 

As  she  listened,  Susan  grew  cold  with  horror  and 
with  hate.  Estelle  said: 

"Tell  the  rest  of  it,  Joe." 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing,"  replied  he. 

When  he  strolled  away  to  talk  with  some  friends 
Estelle  told  "the  rest"  that  was  "nothing."  The  cham 
pionship  secure,  Joe  had  paid  all  Terry's  bills,  had 
supported  Terry  and  his  wife  for  a  year,  had  relapsed 
into  old  habits  and  "pulled  off  a  job"  of  safe-cracking 
because,  the  prize-fighting  happening  to  pay  poorly, 
he  would  have  had  a  default  on  the  payments  for  a 
month  or  so.  He  was  caught,  did  a  year  on  the  Island 
before  his  "pull"  could  get  him  out.  And  all  the  time 

141 


SUSAN  LENOX 


he  was  in  the  "pen"  he  so  arranged  it  with  his  friends 
that  the  invalid  Terry  and  his  invalid  wife  did  not 
suffer.  And  all  this  he  had  done  not  because  he  had 
a  sense  of  owing  Terry,  but  because  he  was  of  the  "set" 
in  which  it  is  the  custom  to  help  anybody  who  happens 
to  need  it,  and  aid  begun  becomes  an  obligation  to 
"see  it  through." 

It  was  an  extreme  case  of  the  moral  chaos  about  her 
— the  chaos  she  had  begun  to  discover  when  she  caught 
her  aunt  and  Ruth  conspiring  to  take  Sam  away  from 
her. 

What  a  world!  If  only  these  shifting,  usually  evil 
winds  of  circumstance  could  be  made  to  blow  good ! 

A  few  evenings  after  the  arrest,  Maud  came  for 
Susan,  persuaded  her  to  go  out.  They  dined  at  about 
the  only  good  restaurant  where  unescorted  women 
were  served  after  nightfall.  Afterward  they  went  "on 
duty."  It  was  fine  overhead,  and  the  air  was  cold  and 
bracing — one  of  those  marvelous  New  York  winter 
nights  which  have  the  tonic  of  both  sea  and  mountains 
and  an  exhilaration,  in  addition,  from  the  intense 
bright-burning  life  of  the  mighty  city.  For  more  than 
a  week  there  had  been  a  steady  downpour  of  snow, 
sleet,  and  finally  rain. 

They  went  into  the  back  room  of  a  saloon  where 
perhaps  half  a  dozen  women  were  already  seated,  some 
of  them  gray  with  the  cold  against  which  their  thin 
showy  garments  were  no  protection.  Susan  and  Maud 
sat  at  a  table  in  a  corner;  Maud  broke  her  rule  and 
drank  whiskey  with  Susan.  After  they  had  taken  per 
haps  half  a  dozen  drinks,  Maud  grew  really  confiden 
tial.  She  always,  even  in  her  soberest  moments, 
seemed  to  be  telling  everything  she  knew;  but  Susan 
had  learned  that  there  were  in  her  many  deep  secrets, 


SUSAN  LENOX 


some  of  which  not  even  liquor  could  unlock. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,"  she  now  said  to 
Susan.  "You  must  promise  not  to  give  me  away." 

"Don't  tell  me,"  replied  Susan.  She  was  used  to 
being  flattered — or  victimized,  according  to  the  point 
of  view — with  confidences.  She  assumed  Maud  was 
about  to  confess  some  secret  about  her  own  self,  as 
she  had  the  almost  universal  habit  of  never  thinking  of 
anyone  else.  "Don't  tell  me,"  said  she.  "I'm  tired  of 
being  used  to  air  awful  secrets.  It  makes  me  feel  like 
a  tenement  wash  line." 

"This  is  about  you,"  said  Maud.  "If  it's  ever 
found  out  that  I  put  your  wise,  Jim'll  have  me  killed. 
Yes— killed." 

Susan,  reckless  by  this  time,  laughed.  "Oh,  trash !" 
she  said. 

"No  trash  at  all,"  insisted  Maud.  "When  you  know 
this  town  through  and  through  you'll  know  that  mur 
der's  something  that  can  be  arranged  as  easy  as  buy 
ing  a  drink.  What  risk  is  there  in  making  one  of  us 
'disappear'?  None  in  the  world.  I  always  feel  that 
Jim'll  have  me  killed  some  day — unless  I  go  crazy 
sometime  and  kill  him.  He's  stuck  on  me — or,  at  least, 
he's  jealous  of  me — and  if  he  ever  found  out  I  had  a 
lover — (Somebody — anybody  that  didn't  pay — why,  it'd 
be  all  up  with  me.  Little  Maud  would  go  on  the  grill." 

She  ordered  and  slowly  drank  another  whiskey  be 
fore  she  recalled  what  she  had  set  out  to  confide.  By 
way  of  a  fresh  start  she  said,  "What  do  you  think  of 
Freddie?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Susan.  And  it  was  the 
truth.  Her  instinctive  belief  in  a  modified  kind  of 
fatalism  made  her  judgments  of  people — even  of  those 
who  caused  her  to  suffer — singularly  free  from  per- 

143 


SUSAN  LENOX 


sonal  bitterness.  Freddie,  a  mere  instrument  of  des 
tiny,  had  his  good  side,  his  human  side,  she  knew.  At 
his  worst  he  was  no  worse  than  the  others.  And  aside 
from  his  queer  magnetism,  there  was  a  certain  force  in 
him  that  compelled  her  admiration ;  at  least  he  was  not 
one  of  the  petty  instruments  of  destiny.  He  had  in 
him  the  same  quality  she  felt  gestating  within  herself. 
"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  she  repeated. 

Maud  had  been  reflecting  while  Susan  was  casting 
about,  as  she  had  many  a  time  before,  for  her  real 
opinion  of  her  master  who  was  in  turn  the  slave  of 
Finnegan,  who  was  in  his  turn  the  slave  of  somebody 
higher  up,  she  didn't  exactly  know  who — or  why — or 
the  why  of  any  of  it — or  the  why  of  the  grotesque 
savage  purposeless  doings  of  destiny  in  general.  Maud 
now  burst  out: 

"I  don't  care.  I'm  going  to  put  you  wise  if  I  die 
for  it." 

"Don't,"   said  Susan.     "I  don't  want  to  know." 

"But  I've  got  to  tell  you.  Do  you  know  what 
Freddie's  going  to  do?" 

Susan  smiled  disdainfully.  "I  don't  care.  You 
mustn't  tell  me — when  you've  been  drinking  this  way." 

"Finnegan's  police  judge  is  a  man  named  Bennett. 
As  soon  as  Bennett  comes  back  to  Jefferson  Market 
Police  Court,  Freddie's  going  to  have  you  sent  up  for 
three  months." 

Susan's  glass  was  on  the  way  to  her  lips.  She  set  it 
down  again.  The  drunken  old  wreck  of  an  entertainer 
at  the  piano  in  the  corner  was  bellowing  oui  his  fa 
vorite  song — "I  Am  the  King  of  the  Vikings."  Susan 
began  to  hum  the  air.  / 

"It's  gospel,"  cried  Maud,  thinking  Susan  did  not 
believe  her.  "He's  a  queer  one,  is  Freddie.  They're 


SUSAN  LENOX 


all  afraid  of  him.  You'd  think  he  was  a  coward,  the 
way  he  bullies  women  and  that.  But  somehow  he  ain't 
— not  a  bit.  He'll  be  a  big  man  in  the  organization 
some  day,  they  all  say.  He  never  lets  up  till  he  gets 
square.  And  he  thinks  you're  not  square — after  all 
he's  done  for  you." 

"Perhaps  not — as  he  looks  at  it,"  said  Susan. 

"And  Jim  says  he's  crazy  in  love  with  you,  and  that 
he  wants  to  put  you  where  other  men  can't  see  you 
and  where  maybe  he  can  get  over  caring  about  you. 
That's  the  real  reason.  He's  a  queer  devil.  But  then 
all  men  are — though  none  quite  like  Freddie." 

"So  I'm  to  go  to  the  Island  for  three  months,"  said 
Susan  reflectively. 

"You  don't  seem  to  care.  It's  plain  you  never  was 
there.  .  .  .  And  you've  got  to  go.  There's  no  way 
out  of  it — unless  you  skip  to  another  city.  And  if 
you  did  you  never  could  come  back  here.  Freddie'd 
see  that  you  got  yours  as  soon  as  you  landed." 

Susan  sat  looking  at  her  glass.  Maud  watched  her 
in  astonishment.  "You're  as  queer  as  Freddie,"  said 
she  at  length.  "I  never  feel  as  if  I  was  acquainted 
with  you — not  really.  I  never  had  a  lady  friend  like 
that  before.  You  don't  seem  to  be  a  bit  excited  about 
what  Freddie's  going  to  do.  Are  you  in  love  with 
him?" 

Susan  lifted  strange,  smiling  eyes  to  Maud's  curious 
gaze.  "I — in  love — with  a  man,"  she  said  slowly.  And 
then  she  laughed. 

"Don't  laugh  that  way,"  cried  Maud.  "It  gives  me 
the  creeps.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"Nothing." 

"Then  if  there's  nothing  to  do,  I'll  do  nothing." 

145 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


"Go  to  the  Island  for  three  months?" 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  haven't  gone 
yet."  She  rose.  "It's  too  stuffy  and  smelly  in  here," 
said  she.  "Let's  move  out." 

"No.  I'll  wait.  I  promised  to  meet  a  gentleman 
friend  here.  You'll  not  tell  that  I  tipped  you  off?" 

"You'd  not  have  told  me  if  you  hadn't  known  I 
wouldn't." 

"That's  so.  But — why  don't  you  make  it  up  with 
Freddie?" 

"I  couldn't  do  that." 

"He's  dead  in  love.     I'm  sure  you  could." 

Again  Susan's  eyes  became  strange.  "I'm  sure  I 
couldn't.  Good  night."  She  got  as  far  as  the  door, 
came  back.  "Thank  you  for  telling  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  murmured  the  girl.  She  was 
embarrassed  by  Susan's  manner.  She  was  frightened 

by  Susan's  eyes.  "You  ain't  going  to "  There 

she  halted. 

"What?" 

"To  jump  off?    Kill  yourself?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Susan.  "I've  got  a  lot  to  do  before 
I  die." 

She  went  directly  home.     Palmer  was  there. 

She  went  to  the  bureau,  unlocked  the  top  drawer 
and  took  a  bill  she  had  there.  She  locked  the  drawer, 
tossed  the  key  into  an  open  box  of  hairpins.  She 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  he,  still  staring  at 
the  ceiling. 

"What's  the  use  of  telling  you?  You'd  not  under 
stand." 

"Perhaps    I    would.      I'm    one-fourth    Italian — and 

146 


SUSAN  LENOX 


they  understand  everything.  .  .  .  You're  fond  of  read 
ing,  aren't  you?" 

"It  passes  the  time." 

"While  I  was  waiting  for  you  I  glanced  at  your 
new  books — Emerson — Dickens — Zola.."  He  was  look 
ing  toward  the  row  of  paper  backs  that  filled  almost 
the  whole  length  of  the  mantel.  "I  must  read  them. 
I  always  like  your  books.  You  spend  nearly  as  much 
time  reading  as  I  do — and  you  don't  need  it,  for  you've 
got  a  good  education.  What  do  you  read  for?  To 
amuse  yourself?" 

"No." 

"To  get  away  from  yourself?" 

"No." 

"Then  why?"  persisted  he. 

"To  find  out  about  myself." 

He  thought  a  moment,  turned  his  face  toward  her. 
"You  are  clever!"  he  said  admiringly.  "What's  your 
game  ?" 

"My   game?" 

"What  are  you  aiming  for?  You've  got  too  much 
sense  not  to  be  aiming  for  something." 

She  looked  at  him;  the  expression  that  marked  her 
as  a  person  peculiar  and  apart  was  glowing  in  her 
eyes  like  a  bed  of  red-hot  coals  covered  with  ashes. 

"What?"  he  repeated. 

"To  get  strong,"  replied  she.  "Women  are  born 
weak  and  bred  weaker.  I've  got  to  get  over  being  a 
woman.  For  there  isn't  any  place  in  this  world  for  a 
woman  except  under  the  shelter  of  some  man.  And  I 
don't  want  that."  The  underlying  strength  of  her 
features  abruptly  came  into  view.  "And  I  won't  have 
it,"  she  added. 

147 


SUSAN  LENOX 


He  laughed.  "But  the  men'll  never  let  you  be  any 
thing  but  a  woman." 

"We'll  see,"  said  she,  smiling.  The  strong  look  had 
vanished  into  the  soft  contour  of  her  beautiful  youth. 

"Personally,  I  like  you  better  when  you've  been 
drinking,"  he  went  on.  "You're  sad  when  you're 
sober.  As  you  drink  you  liven  up." 

"When  I  get  over  being  sad  if  I'm  sober,  when  I 
learn  to  take  things  as  they  come,  just  like  a  man — a 
strong  man,  then  I'll  be "  She  stopped. 

"Be  what?" 

"Ready." 

"Ready  for  what?" 

"How  do  I  know?" 

He  swung  himself  to  a  sitting  position.  "Mean 
while,  you're  coming  to  live  with  me.  I've  been  fight 
ing  against  it,  but  I  give  up.  I  need  you.  You're 
the  one  I've  been  looking  for.  Pack  your  traps.  I'll 
call  a  cab  and  we'll  go  over  to  my  flat.  Then  we'll 
go  to  Rector's  and  celebrate." 

She  shook  her  head.     "I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  told  you.  There's  something  in  me  that  won't 
let  me." 

An  hour  later,  when  he  was  asleep,  she  changed  to 
her  plainest  dress.  Leaving  her  discarded  blouse 
on  the  bed  beside  him  where  she  had  flung  it  down 
after  tearing  it  off,  she  turned  out  the  light,  darted 
down  stairs  and  into  the  street.  At  Times  Square 
she  took  the  Subway  for  the  Bowery.  To  change 
one's  world,  one  need  not  travel  far  in  New  York;  the 
ocean  is  not  so  wide  as  is  the  gap  between  the  Ten 
derloin  and  the  lower  East  Side. 

148 


VIII 

SHE  had  thought  of  escape  daily,  hourly  almost, 
for  nearly  five  months.  She  had  advanced  not 
an  inch  toward  it;  but  she  never  for  an  instant 
lost  hope.  She  believed  in  her  destiny,  felt  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  health  and  vitality  that  she  had  not 
yet  found  her  place  in  the  world,  that  she  would  find  it, 
and  that  it  would  be  high.  Now — she  was  compelled  to 
escape,  and  this  with  only  seventeen  dollars  and  in  the 
little  time  that  would  elapse  before  Palmer  returned  to 
consciousness  and  started  in  pursuit,  bent  upon  cruel 
and  complete  revenge.  She  changed  to  an  express 
train  at  the  Grand  Central  Subway  station,  left  the 
express  on  impulse  at  Fourteenth  Street,  took  a  local 
to  Astor  Place,  there  ascended  to  the  street. 

She  was  far  indeed  from  the  Tenderloin,  in  a  region 
not  visited  by  the  people  she  knew.  As  for  Freddie,  he 
never  went  below  Fourteenth  Street,  hated  the  lower 
East  Side,  avoided  anyone  from  that  region  of  his 
early  days,  now  shrouded  in  a  mystery  that  would  not 
be  dispelled  with  his  consent.  Freddie  would  not  think 
of  searching  for  her  there;  and  soon  he  would  believe 
she  was  dead — drowned,  and  at  the  bottom  of  river  or 
bay.  As  she  stepped  from  the  exit  of  the  underground, 
she  saw  in  the  square  before  her,  under  the  Sunset  Cox 
statue,  a  Salvation  Army  corps  holding  a  meeting.  She 
heard  a  cry  from  the  center  of  the  crowd: 

"The  wages  of  sin  is  death!" 

She  drifted  into  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  and  glanced 
at  the  little  group  of  exhorters  and  musicians.  The 

149 


SUSAN  LENOX 


woman  who  was  preaching  had  taken  the  life  of  the 
streets  as  her  text.  Well  fed  and  well  clad  and  certain 
of  a  clean  room  to  sleep  in — certain  of  a  good  living, 
she  was  painting  the  moral  horrors  of  the  street  life. 

"The  wages  of  sin  is  death !"  she  shouted. 

She  caught  Susan's  eye,  saw  the  cynical-bitter  smile 
round  her  lips.  For  Susan  had  the  feeling  that,  un 
suspected  by  the  upper  classes,  animates  the  masses  as 
to  clergy  and  charity  workers  of  all  kinds — much  the 
same  feeling  one  would  have  toward  the  robber's  mes 
senger  who  came  bringing  from  his  master  as  a  loving 
gift  some  worthless  trifle  from  the  stolen  goods.  Not 
from  clergy,  not  from  charity  worker,  not  from  the  life 
of  the  poor  as  they  take  what  is  given  them-  with  hypo 
critical  cringe  and  tear  of  thanks,  will  the  upper  classes 
get  the  truth  as  to  what  is  thought  of  them  by  the 
masses  in  this  day  of  awakening  intelligence  and  slow 
heaving  of  crusts  so  long  firm  that  they  have  come  to 
be  regarded  as  bed-rock  of  social  foundation. 

Cried  the  woman,  in  response  to  Susan's  satirical 
look: 

"You  mock  at  that,  my  lovely  young  sister.  Your 
lips  are  painted,  and  they  sneer.  But  you  know  I'm 
right — yes,  you  show  in  your  eyes  that  you  know  it 
in  your  aching  heart!  The  wages  of  sin  is  death! 
Isn't  that  so,  sister?" 

Susan  shook  her  head. 

"Speak  the  truth,  sister !  God  is  watching  you.  The 
wages  of  sin  is  death!" 

"The  wages  of  weakness  is  death,"  retorted  Susan. 
"But — the  wages  of  sin — well,  it's  sometimes  a  house 
in  Fifth  Avenue." 

And  then  she  shrank  away  before  the  approving 
laughter  of  the  little  crowd  and  hurried  across  into 

150 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Eighth  Street.  In  the  deep  shadow  of  the  front  of 
Cooper  Union  she  paused,  as  the  meaning  of  her  own 
impulsive  words  came  to  her.  The  wages  of  sin !  And 
what  was  sin,  the  supreme  sin,  but  weakness?  It  was 
exactly  as  Burlingham  had  explained.  He  had  said 
that,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  really  to  live  one 
must  be  strong.  Strong ! 

What  a  good  teacher  he  had  been — one  of  the  rare 
kind  that  not  only  said  things  interestingly  but  also 
said  them  so  that  you  never  forgot.  How  badly  she 
had  learned ! 

She  strolled  on  through  Eighth  Street,  across  Third 
Avenue  and  into  Second  Avenue.  It  was  ten  o'clock. 
The  effects  of  the  liquor  she  had  drunk  had  worn  away. 
In  so  much  wandering  she  had  acquired  the  habit  of 
closing  up  an  episode  of  life  as  a  traveler  puts  behind 
him  the  railway  journey  at  its  end.  She  was  less  than 
half  an  hour  from  her  life  in  the  Tenderloin ;  it  was  as 
completely  in  her  past  as  it  would  ever  be.  The  cards 
had  once  more  been  shuffled ;  a  new  deal  was  on. 

A  new  deal.  What?  To  fly  to  another  city — that 
meant  another  Palmer,  or  the  miseries  of  the  unpro 
tected  woman  of  the  streets,  or  slavery  to  the  madman 
of  what  the  French  with  cruel  irony  call  a  maison  de 
joie.  To  return  to  work 

No — not  work — never  again. 

A  new  deal!  And  a  new  deal  meant  at  least  even 
chance  for  good  luck. 

As  she  drifted  down  the  west  side  of  Second  Avenue, 
her  thoughts  so  absorbed  her  that  she  was  oblivious  of 
the  slushy  sidewalk,  even  of  the  crossings  where  one 
had  to  pick  one's  way  as  through  a  shallow  creek  with 
stepping  stones  here  and  there.  There  were  many 
women  alone,  as  in  every  other  avenue  and  every  fre- 

151 


SUSAN  LENOX 


quented  cross  street  throughout  the  city — women  made 
eager  to  desperation  by  the  long  stretch  of  impossible 
weather.  Every  passing  man  was  hailed,  sometimes 
boldly,  sometimes  softly.  Again  and  again  that  gro 
tesque  phrase,  "Let's  go  have  a  good  time,"  fell  upon 
the  ears.  After  several  blocks,  when  her  absent-mind 
edness  had  got  her  legs  wet  to  the  knees  in  the  shallow 
shiny  slush,  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  music — an 
orchestra  playing  and  playing  well  a  lively  Hungarian 
dance.  She  was  standing  before  the  winter  garden 
from  which  the  sounds  came.  As  she  opened  the  door 
she  was  greeted  by  a  rush  of  warm  air  pleasantly 
scented  with  fresh  tobacco  smoke,  the  odors  of  spiced 
drinks  and  of  food,  pastry  predominating.  Some  of 
the  tables  were  covered  ready  for  those  who  would  wish 
to  eat ;  but  many  of  them  were  for  the  drinkers.  The 
large,  low-ceilinged  room  was  comfortably  filled.  There 
were  but  a  few  women  and  they  seemed  to  be  wives  or 
sweethearts.  Susan  was  about  to  retreat  when  a  waiter 
— one  of  those  Austrians  whose  heads  end  abruptly  an 
inch  or  so  above  the  eyebrows  and  whose  chins  soon 
shade  off  into  neck — advanced  smilingly  with  a  polite, 
"We  serve  ladies  without  escorts." 

She  chose  a  table  that  had  several  other  vacant 
tables  round  it.  On  the  recommendation  of  the  waiter 
she  ordered  a  "burning  devil" ;  he  assured  her  she  would 
find  it  delicious  and  the  very  thing  for  a  cold  slushy 
night.  At  the  far  end  of  the  room  on  a  low  platform 
sat  the  orchestra.  A  man  in  an  evening  suit  many  sizes 
too  large  for  him  sang  in  a  strong,  not  disagreeable 
tenor  a  German  song  that  drew  loud  applause  at  the 
end  of  each  stanza.  The  "burning  devil"  came — an 
almost  black  mixture  in  a  large  heavy  glass.  The 
waiter  touched  a  match  to  it,  and  it  was  at  once 

152 


SUSAN  LE&3X 


wreathed  in  pale  flickering  flames  that  hovered  like  but 
terflies,  now  rising  as  if  to  float  away,  now  lightly 
descending  to  flit  over  the  surface  of  the  liquid  or  to 
dance  along  the  edge  of  the  glass. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  it?"  said  Susan. 

"Wait  till  it  goes  out,"  said  the  waiter.  "Then 
drink,  as  you  would  anything  else."  And  he  was  off 
to  attend  to  the  wants  of  a  group  of  card  players  a 
few  feet  away. 

Susan  touched  her  finger  to  the  glass,  when  the  flame 
suddenly  vanished.  She  found  it  was  not  too  hot  to 
drink,  touched  her  lips  to  it.  The  taste,  sweetish,  sug 
gestive  of  coffee  and  of  brandy  and  of  burnt  sugar, 
was  agreeable.  She  slowly  sipped  it,  delighting  in 
the  sensation  of  warmth,  of  comfort,  of  well  being 
that  speedily  diffused  through  her.  The  waiter  came 
to  receive  her  thanks  for  his  advice.  She  said  to  him: 

"Do  you  have  women  sing,  too?" 

"Oh,  yes — when  we  can  find  a  good-looker  with  a 
voice.  Our  customers  know  music." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  get  a  trial?" 

The  waiter  was  interested  at  once.  "Perhaps.  You 
sing?" 

"I  have  sung  on  the  stage." 

"I'll  ask  the  boss." 

He  went  to  the  counter  near  the  door  where  stood  a 
short  thick-set  Jew  of  the  East  European  snub-nosed 
type  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  seated  blonde 
woman.  She  showed  that  skill  at  clinging  to  youth 
which  among  the  lower  middle  and  lower  classes  pretty 
clearly  indicates  at  least  some  experience  at  the  fast 
life.  Fo?  only  in  the  upper  and  upper  middle  class 
does  a  respectable  woman  venture  thus  to  advertise  so 
suspicious  a  guest  within  as  a  desire  to  be  agreeable  in 

153 


SUSAN  LENOX 


the  sight  of  men.  Susan  watched  the  waiter  as  he 
spoke  to  the  proprietor,  saw  the  proprietor's  impa 
tient  shake  of  the  head,  sent  out  a  wave  of  gratitude 
from  her  heart  when  her  waiter  friend  persisted, 
compelled  the  proprietor  to  look  toward  her.  She 
affected  an  air  of  unconsciousness ;  in  fact,  she  was 
posing  as  if  before  a  camera.  Her  heart  leaped 
when  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  the  pro 
prietor  coming  with  the  waiter.  The  two  paused  at 
her  table,  and  the  proprietor  said  in  a  sharp,  impa 
tient  voice: 

"Well,  lady— what  is  it?" 

"I  want  a  trial  as  a  singer." 

The  proprietor  was  scanning  her  features  and  her 
figure  which  was  well  displayed  by  the  tight-fitting 
jacket.  The  result  seemed  satisfactory,  for  in  a  voice 
oily  with  the  softening  influence  of  feminine  charm 
upon  male,  he  said : 

"You've  had  experience?" 

"Yes — a  lot  of  it.  But  I  haven't  sung  in  about  two 
years." 

"Sing  German?" 

"Only  ballads  in  English.  But  I  can  learn  any 
thing." 

"English'll  do — if  you  can  sing.  What  costume  do 
you  wear?"  And  the  proprietor  seated  himself  and 
motioned  the  waiter  away. 

"I  have  no  costume.  As  I  told  you,  I've  not  been 
singing  lately." 

"We've  got  one  that  might  fit — a  short  blue  silk 
skirt — low  neck  and  blue  stockings.  Slippers  too,  but 
they  might  be  tight — I  forget  the  number." 

"I  did  wear  threes.  But  I've  done  a  great  deal  of 
walking.  I  wear  a  five  now."  Susan  thrust  out  a  foot 

154 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  ankle,  for  she  knew  that  despite  the  overshoe  they 
were  good  to  look  at. 

The  proprietor  nodded  approvingly  and  there  was 
the  note  of  personal  interest  in  his  voice  as  he  said: 
"They  can  try  your  voice  tomorrow  morning.  Come 
at  ten  o'clock." 

"If  you  decide  to  try  me,  what  pay  will  I  get  ?" 

The  proprietor  smiled  slyly.  "Oh,  we  don't  pay 
anything  to  the  singers.  That  man  who  sang — he  gets 
his  board  here.  He  works  in  a  factory  as  a  bookkeeper 
in  the  daytime.  Lots  of  theatrical  and  musical  people 
come  here.  If  a  man  or  a  girl  can  do  any  stunt  worth 
while,  there's  a  chance." 

"I'd  have  to  have  something  more  than  board,"  said 
Susan. 

The  proprietor  frowned  down  at  his  stubby  fingers 
whose  black  and  cracked  nails  were  drumming  on  the 
table.  "Well — I  might  give  you  a  bed.  There's  a 
place  I  could  put  one  in  my  daughter's  room.  She 
sings  and  dances  over  at  Louis  Blanc's  garden  in  Third 
Avenue.  Yes,  I  could  put  you  there.  But — no  privi 
leges,  you  understand." 

"Certainly.  .  .  .  I'll  decide  tomorrow.  Maybe  you'll 
not  want  me." 

"I  suppose  there  isn't  any  work  I  could  do  in  the 
daytime  ?" 

"Not  here." 

"Perhaps " 

"Not  nowhere,  so  far  as  I  know.  That  is,  work 
you'd  care  to  do.  The  factories  and  stores  is  hard  on 
a  woman,  and  she  don't  get  much.  And  besides  they 
ain't  very  classy  to  my  notion.  Of  course,  if  a  woman 
ain't  got  looks  or  sense  or  any  tone  to  her,  if  she's 
satisfied  to  live  in  a  bum  tenement  and  marry  some 

155 


SUSAN  LENOX 


dub  that  can't  make  nothing,  why,  that's  different. 
But  you  look  like  a  woman  that  had  been  used  to 
something  and  wanted  to  get  somewhere.  I  wouldn't 
have  let  my  daughter  go  into  no  such  low,  foolish 
life." 

She  had  intended  to  ask  about  a  place  to  stop  for 
the  night.  She  now  decided  that  the  suggestion  that 
she  was  homeless  might  possibly  impair  her  chances. 
After  some  further  conversation — the  proprietor  re 
peating  what  he  had  already  said,  and  repeating  it  in 
about  the  same  language — she  paid  the  waiter  fifteen 
cents  for  the  drink'  and  a  tip  of  five  cents  out  of  the 
change  she  had  in  her  purse,  and  departed.  It  had 
clouded  over,  and  a  misty,  dismal  rain  was  trickling 
through  the  saturated  air  to  add  to  the  messiness  of  the 
churn  of  cold  slush.  Susan  went  on  down  Second  Ave 
nue.  On  a  corner  near  its  lower  end  she  saw  a  Raines 
Law  hotel  with  awnings,  indicating  that  it  was  not 
merely  a  blind  to  give  a  saloon  a  hotel  license  but  was 
actually  open  for  business.  She  went  into  the  "f amity" 
entrance  of  the  saloon,  was  alone  in  a  small  clean  sit 
ting-room  with  a  sliding  window  between  it  and  the  bar. 
A  tough  but  not  unpleasant  young  face  appeared  at 
the  window.  It  was  the  bartender. 

"Evening,  cutie,"  said  he.      "What'll  you  have?" 

"Some  rye  whiskey,"  replied  Susan.  "May  I  smoke 
a  cigarette  here?" 

"Sure,  go  as  far  as  you  like.  Ten-cent  whiskey — or 
fifteen?" 

"Fifteen — unless  it's  out  of  the  same  bottle  as  the 
ten." 

"Call  it  ten — seeing  as  you  are  a  lady.  I've  got  a 
soft  heart  for  you  ladies.  I've  got  a  wife  in  the  busi 
ness,  myself." 

156 


SUSAN  LENOX 


When  he  came  in  at  the  door  with  the  drink,  a  young 
man  followed  him — a  good-looking,  darkish  youth,  well 
dressed  in  a  ready  made  suit  of  the  best  sort.  At 
second  glance  Susan  saw  that  he  was  at  least  partly  of 
Jewish  blood,  enough  to  elevate  his  face  above  the 
rather  dull  type  which  predominates  among  clerks  and 
merchants  of  the  Christian  races.  He  had  small,  shifty 
eyes,  an  attractive  smile,  a  manner  of  assurance  bor 
dering  on  insolence.  He  dropped  into  a  chair  at 
Susan's  table  with  a,  "You  don't  mind  having  a  drink 
on  me." 

As  Susan  had  no  money  to  spare,  she  acquiesced. 
She  said  to  the  bartender,  "I  want  to  get  a  room  here — 
a  plain  room.  How  much?" 

"Maybe  this  gent'll  help  you  out,"  said  the  bartender 
with  a  grin  and  a  wink.  "He's  got  money  to  burn — 
and  burns  it." 

The  bartender  withdrew.  The  young  man  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  for  her  to  light  the  cigarette  she 
took  from  her  purse.  Then  he  lit  one  himself.  "Next 
time  try  one  of  mine,"  said  he.  "I  get  'em  of  a  fellow 
that  makes  for  the  swellest  uptown  houses.  But  I  get 
'em  ten  cents  a  package  instead  of  forty.  I  haven't 
seen  you  down  here  before.  What  a  good  skin  you've 
got !  It's  been  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  a  skin  as  fine 
as  that,  except  on  a  baby  now  and  then.  And  that 
shape  of  yours  is  all  right,  too.  I  suppose  it's  the  real 
goods?" 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Why  not?"  asked 
she  carelessly. 

She  did  not  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  being 
alone.  The  man  was  clean  and  well  dressed,  and  had 
an  unusual  amount  of  personal  charm  that  softened  his 
impertinence  of  manner.  Evidently  he  had  the  habit 

22  157  ' 


SUSAN  LENOX 


of  success  with  women.  She  much  preferred  him  sitting 
with  her  to  her  own  depressing  society.  So  she  ac 
cepted  his  invitation.  She  took  one  of  his  cigarettes, 
and  it  was  as  good  as  he  had  said.  He  rattled  on, 
mingling  frank  coarse  compliments  with  talk  about 
"the  business"  from  a  standpoint  so  practical  that  she 
began  to  suspect  he  was  somehow  in  it  himself.  He 
clearly  belonged  to  those  more  intelligent  children  of 
the  upper  class  tenement  people,  the  children  who  are 
too  bright  and  too  well  educated  to  become  working- 
men  and  working  women  like  their  parents ;  they  refuse 
to  do  any  kind  of  manual  labor,  as  it  could  never  in 
the  most  favorable  circumstances  pay  well  enough  to 
give  them  the  higher  comforts  they  crave,  the  expensive 
comforts  which  every  merchant  is  insistently  and  tempt 
ingly  thrusting  at  a  public  for  the  most  part  too  poor 
to  buy ;  so  these  cleverer  children  of  the  working  class 
develop  into  shyster  lawyers,  politicians,  sports,  pros 
titutes,  unless  chance  throws  into  their  way  some  re 
spectable  means  of  getting  money.  Vaguely  she  won 
dered — without  caring  to  question  or  guess  what  par 
ticular  form  of  activity  this  young  man  had  taken  in 
avoiding  monotonous  work  at  small  pay. 

After  her  second  drink  came  she  found  that  she  did 
not  want  it.  She  felt  tired  and  sleepy  and  wished  to 
get  her  wet  stockings  off  and  to  dry  her  skirt  which, 
for  all  her  careful  holding  up,  had  not  escaped  the 
fate  of  whatever  was  exposed  to  that  abominable  night. 
"I'm  going  along  with  you,"  said  the  young  man 
as  she  rose.  "Here's  to  our  better  acquaintance." 

"Thanks,  but  I  want  to  be  alone,"  replied  she  af 
fably.  And,  not  to  seem  unappreciative  of  his  cour 
tesy,  she  took  a  small  drink  from  her  glass.  It  tasted 
very  queer.  She  glanced  suspiciously  at  the  young 

158 


SUSAN  LENOX 


man.  Her  legs  grew  suddenly  and  strangely  heavy ; 
her  heart  began  to  beat  violently,  and  a  black  fog 
seemed  to  be  closing  in  upon  her  eyes.  Through  it  she 
saw  the  youth  grinning  sardonically.  And  instantly 
she  knew.  "What  a  fool  I  am !"  she  thought. 

She  had  been  trapped  by  another  form  of  the  slave 
system.  This  man  was  a  recruiting  sergeant  for  houses 
of  prostitution — was  one  of  the  "cadets."  They  search 
the  tenement  districts  for  good-looking  girls  and  young 
women.  They  hang  about  the  street  corners,  flirting. 
They  attend  the  balls  where  go  the  young  people  of 
the  lower  middle  class  and  upper  lower  class.  They 
learn  to  make  love  seductively;  they  understand  how 
to  tempt  a  girl's  longing  for  finery,  for  an  easier  life, 
her  dream  of  a  husband  above  her  class  in  looks  and 
in  earning  power.  And  for  each  recruit  "broken  in" 
and  hardened  to  the  point  of  willingness  to  go  into  a 
sporting  house,  they  get  from  the  proprietor  ten  to 
twenty-five  dollars  according  to  her  youth  and  beauty. 
Susan  knew  all  about  the  system,  had  heard  stories  of 
it  from  the  lips  of  girls  who  had  been  embarked  through 
it — embarked  a  little  sooner  than  they  would  have 
embarked  under  the  lash  of  want,  or  of  that  other  and 
almost  equally  compelling  brute,  desire  for  the  comforts 
and  luxuries  that  mean  decent  living.  Susan  knew; 
yet  here  she  was,  because  of  an  unguarded  moment,  and 
because  of  a  sense  of  security  through  experience — 
here  she  was,  succumbing  to  knockout  drops  as  easily 
as  the  most  innocent  child  lured  away  from  its  mother's 
door  to  get  a  saucer  of  ice  cream !  She  tried  to  rise, 
to  scream,  though  she  knew  any  such  effort  was  futile. 

With  a  gasp  and  a  sigh  her  head  fell  forward  and 
she  was  unconscious. 

159 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  awakened  in  a  small,  rather  dingy  room.  She 
was  lying  on  the  bed.  Beyond  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood 
a  man,  his  back  to  her. 

With  a  groan  Susan  lifted  herself  to  a  sitting  posi 
tion,  drew  the  spread  about  her — a  gesture  of  instinct 
rather  than  of  conscious  modesty.  "They  drugged  me 
and  brought  me  here,"  said  she.  "I  want  you  to  help 
me  get  out." 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  the  man,  instantly  all  a-quiver 
with  nervousness.  "I'm  a  married  man.  I  don't  want 
to  get  mixed  up  in  this."  And  out  of  the  room  he 
bolted,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Susan  smiled  at  herself  satirically.  After  all  her  ex 
perience,  to  make  this  silly  appeal — she  who  knew  men ! 
"I  must  be  getting  feeble-minded,"  thought  she. 
Then 

Her  clothes!  With  a  glance  she  swept  the  little 
room.  No  closet!  Her  own  clothes  gone!  On  the 
chair  beside  the  bed  a  fast-house  parlor  dress  of  pink 
cotton  silk,  and  a  kind  of  abbreviated  chemise.  The 
stockings  on  her  legs  were  not  her  own,  but  were  of 
pink  cotton,  silk  finished.  A  pair  of  pink  satin  slip 
pers  stood  on  the  floor  beside  the  two  galvanized  iron 
wash  basins. 

A  few  minutes  later  in  came  the  madam.  Susan, 
exhausted,  sick,  lay  inert  in  the  middle  of  the  bed. 
She  fixed  her  gaze  upon  the  eyes  looking  through  the 
hideous  mask  of  paint  and  powder  partially  concealing 
the  madam's  face. 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  be  a  good  girl  now?"  said 
the  madam. 

Susan  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh.  "Oh,  come  off," 
said  she.  "I'll  not  stand  for  that.  I'll  go  back  to  Jim 
Finnegan." 

160 


SUSAN  LENOX 


The  old  woman's  eyes  pounced  for  her  face  instantly. 
"Do  you  know  Finnegan?" 

"I'm  his  girl,"  said  Susan  carelessly. 

The  madam  gave  a  kind  of  howl.  "You're  Finne- 
gan's  girl,  and  he'll  make  trouble  for  me." 

"He's  got  a  nasty  streak  in  him,"  said  Susan  drows 
ily.  She  laughed,  yawned.  "Put  out  the  light." 

"No,  I  won't  put  out  the  light,"  shrieked  the  madam. 
"I'm  going  to  telephone  Jim  Finnegan  to  come  and  get 
you." 

Susan  started  up  angrily,  as  if  she  were  half-crazed 
by  drink. 

"Do  get  dressed,  dear,"  wheedled  the  madam,  handing 
her  her  own  clothing  again. 

Susan  dressed  with  the  utmost  deliberation,  the 
madam  urging  her  to  make  haste.  After  some  argu 
ment,  Susan  yielded  to  the  madam's  pleadings  and  con 
tented  herself  with  the  twenty  dollars.  The  madam 
herself  escorted  Susan  down  to  the  outside  door  and 
slathered  her  with  sweetness  and  politeness.  The  rain 
had  stopped  again.  Susan  went  up  Second  Avenue 
slowly.  Two  blocks  from  the  dive  from  which  she  had 
escaped,  she  sank  down  on  a  stoop  and  fainted. 


IX 

THE  dash  of  cold  rain  drops  upon  her  face  and 
the  chill  of  moisture  soaking  through  her  cloth 
ing  revived  her.  Throughout  the  whole  range 
of  life,  whenever  we  resist  we  suffer.  As  Susan  dragged 
her  aching,  cold  wet  body  up  from  that  stoop,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  each  time  she  resisted  the  penalty  grew 
heavier.  Could  she  have  been  more  wretched  had  she 
remained  in  that  dive?  From  her  first  rebellion  that 
drove  her  out  of  her  uncle's  house  had  she  ever  bettered 
herself  by  resisting?  She  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse, 
from  worse  to  worst. 

Worst?  "This  must  be  the  worst!"  she  thought. 
"Surely  there  can  be  no  lower  depth  than  where  I  am 
now."  And  then  she  shuddered  and  her  soul  reeled. 
Had  she  not  thought  this  at  each  shelf  of  the  precipice 
down  which  she  had  been  falling?  "Has  it  a  bottom? 
Is  there  no  bottom?" 

Wet  through,  tired  through,  she  put  up  her  umbrella 
and  forced  herself  feebly  along.  "Where  am  I  going? 
Why  do  I  not  kill  myself?  What  is  it  that  drives  me 
on  and  on?" 

There  came  no  direct  answer  to  that  last 
question.  But  up  from  those  deep  vast  reservoirs  of 
vitality  that  seemed  sufficient  whatever  the  drain 
upon  them — up  from  those  reservoirs  welled  strength 
and  that  unfaltering  will  to  live  which  breathes  upon 
the  corpse  of  hope  and  quickens  it.  And  she  had  a 
sense  of  an  invisible  being,  a  power  that  had  her  in 
charge,  a  destiny,  walking  beside  her,  holding  up  her 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


drooping  strength,   compelling  her  toward  some  goal 
hidden  in  the  fog  and  the  storm. 

At  Eighth  Street  she  turned  west;  at  Third  Avenue 
she  paused,  waiting  for  chance  to  direct  her.  Was  it 
not  like  the  maliciousness  of  fate  that  in  the  city  whose 
rarely  interrupted  reign  of  joyous  sunshine  made  her 
call  it  the  city  of  the  Sun  her  critical  turn  of  chance 
should  have  fallen  in  foul  weather  ?  Evidently  fate  was 
resolved  on  a  thorough  test  of  her  endurance.  In  the 
open  square,  near  the  Peter  Cooper  statue,  stood  a  huge 
all-night  lunch  wagon.  She  moved  toward  it,  for  she 
suddenly  felt  hungry.  It  was  drawn  to  the  curb;  a 
short  flight  of  ladder  steps  led  to  an  interior  attractive 
to  sight  and  smell.  She  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
and  looked  in.  The  only  occupant  was  the  man  in 
charge.  In  a  white  coat  he  was  leaning  upon  the  coun 
ter,  reading  a  newspaper  which  lay  flat  upon  it.  His 
bent  head  was  extensively  and  roughly  thatched  with 
black  hair  so  thick  that  to  draw  a  comb  through  it 
would  have  been  all  but  impossible.  As  Susan  let  down 
her  umbrella  and  began  to  ascend,  he  lifted  his  head  and 
gave  her  a  full  view  of  a  humorous  young  face,  bushy 
of  eyebrows  and  mustache  and  darkly  stained  by  his 
beard,  close  shaven  though  it  was.  He  looked  like  a 
Spaniard  or  an  Italian,  but  he  was  a  black  Irishman, 
one  of  the  West  coasters  who  recall  in  their  eyes  and 
coloring  the  wrecking  of  the  Armada. 

"Good  morning,  lady,"  said  he.  "Breakfast  or 
supper?" 

"Both,"  replied  Susan.     "I'm  starved." 

The  air  was  gratefully  warm  in  the  little  restaurant 
on  wheels.  The  dominant  odor  was  of  hot  coffee ;  but 
that  aroma  was  carried  to  a  still  higher  delight  by  a 
suggestion  of  pastry.  "The  best  thing  I've  got,"  said 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


the  restaurant  man,  "is  hot  corn  beef  hash.  It's  so 
good  I  hate  to  let  any  of  it  go.  You  can  have  griddle 
cakes,  too — and  coffee,  of  course." 

"Very  well,"  said  Susan. 

She  was  ascending  upon  a  wave  of  reaction  from  the 
events  of  the  night.  Her  headache  had  gone.  The 
rain  beating  upon  the  roof  seemed  musical  to  her  now, 
in  this  warm  shelter  with  its  certainty  of  the  food  she 
craved. 

The  young  man  was  busy  at  the  shiny,  compact 
stove;  the  odors  of  the  good  things  she  was  presently 
to  have  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  stimulating  her 
hunger,  bringing  joy  to  her  heart  and  a  smile  to 
her  eyes.  She  wondered  at  herself.  After  what  she 
had  passed  through,  how  could  she  feel  thus  happy — 
yes,  positively  happy?  It  seemed  to  her  this  was  an 
indication  of  a  lack  in  her  somewhere — of  seriousness, 
of  sensibility,  of  she  knew  not  what.  She  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  that  lack.  But  she  was  not  ashamed.  She 
was  shedding  her  troubles  like  a  child — or  like  a  philos 
opher. 

"Do  you  like  hash  ?"  inquired  the  restaurant  man  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Just  as  you're  making  it,"  said  she.  "Dry  but  not 
too  dry.  Brown  but  not  too  brown." 

"You  don't  think  you'd  like  a  poached  egg  on  top 
of  it?" 

"Exactly  what  I  want!" 

"It  isn't  everybody  that  can  poach  an  egg,"  said  the 
restaurant  man.  "And  it  isn't  every  egg  that  can  be 
poached.  Now,  my  eggs  are  the  real  thing.  And  I 
can  poach  'em  so  you'd  think  they  was  done  with  one 
of  them  poaching  machines.  I  don't  have  'em  with  the 
yellow  on  a  slab  of  white.  I  do  it  so  that  the  white's 

164 


SUSAN  LENOX 


all  round  the  yellow,  like  in  the  shell.  And  I  keep  'em 
tender,  too.  Did  you  say  one  egg  or  a  pair?" 

"Two,"  said  Susan. 

The  dishes  were  thick,  but  clean  and  whole.  The 
hash — "dry  but  not  too  dry,  brown  but  not  too  brown" 
— was  artistically  arranged  on  its  platter,  and  the  two 
eggs  that  adorned  its  top  were  precisely  as  he  had 
promised.  The  coffee,  boiled  with  the  milk,  was  real 
coffee,  too.  When  the  restaurant  man  had  set  these 
things  before  her,  as  she  sat  expectant  on  a  stool,  he 
viewed  his  handiwork  with  admiring  eyes. 

"Delmonico  couldn't  beat  it,"  said  he.  "No,  nor 
Oscar,  neither.  That'll  take  the  tired  look  out  of  your 
face,  lady,  and  bring  the  beauty  back." 

Susan  ate  slowly,  listening  to  the  music  of  the  beat 
ing  rain.  It  was  like  an  oasis,  a  restful  halt  between 
two  stretches  of  desert  j  ourney ;  she  wished  to  make  it 
as  long  as  possible.  Only  those  who  live  exposed  to 
life's  buffetings  ever  learn  to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  great 
little  pleasures  of  life — the  halcyon  pauses  in  the  storms 
— the  few  bright  rays  through  the  break  in  the  clouds, 
the  joy  of  food  after  hunger,  of  a  bath  after  days  of 
privation,  of  a  jest  or  a  smiling  face  or  a  kind  word 
or  deed  after  darkness  and  bitterness  and  contempt. 
She  saw  the  restaurant  man's  eyes  on  her,  a  curious 
expression  in  them. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  inquired. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "how  miserable  you  must 
have  been  to  be  so  happy  now." 

"Oh,  I  guess  none  of  us  has  any  too  easy  a  time," 
said  she. 

"But  it's  mighty  hard  on  women.  I  used  to  think 
different,  before  I  had  bad  luck  and  got  down  to  tend 
ing  this  lunch  wagon.  But  now  I  understand  about  a 

165 


SUSAN  LENOX 


lot  of  things.  It's  all  very  well  for  comfortable  people 
to  talk  about  what  a  man  or  a  woman  ought  to  do  and 
oughtn't  to  do.  But  let  'em  be  slammed  up  against  it. 
They'd  sing  a  different  song — wouldn't  they?" 

"Quite  different,"  said  Susan. 

The  man  waved  a  griddle  spoon.  "I  tell  you,  we  do 
what  we've  got  to  do.  Yes — the  thieves  and — and — 
all  of  us.  Some's  used  for  foundations  and  some  for 
roofing  and  some  for  inside  fancy  work  and  some  for 
outside  wall.  And  some's  used  for  the  rubbish  heap. 
But  all's  used.  They  do  what  they've  got  to  do.  I 
was  a  great  hand  at  worrying  what  I  was  going  to  be 
used  for.  But  I  don't  bother  about  it  any  more."  He 
began  to  pour  the  griddle  cake  dough.  "I  think  I'll  get 
there,  though,"  said  he  doggedly,  as  if  he  expected  to 
be  derided  for  vanity. 

"You  will,"  said  Susan. 

"I'm  twenty-nine.  But  I've  been  being  got  ready  for 
something.  They  don't  chip  away  at  a  stone  as  they 
have  at  me  without  intending  to  make  some  use  of  it." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  the  girl,  hope  and  faith  welling 
up  in  her  own  heart. 

"And  what's  more,  I've  stood  the  chipping.  I  ain't 
become  rubbish ;  I'm  still  a  good  stone.  That's  promis 
ing,  ain't  it?" 

"It's  a  sure  sign,"  declared  Susan.  Sure  for  herself, 
no  less  than  for  him. 

The  restaurant  man  took  from  under  the  counter 
several  well-worn  schoolbooks.  He  held  them  up, 
looked  at  Susan  and  winked.  "Good  business — eh?" 

She  laughed  and  nodded.  He  put  the  books  back 
under  the  counter,  finished  the  cakes  and  served  them. 
As  he  gave  her  more  butter  he  said: 

"It  ain't  the  best  butter — not  by  a  long  shot.     But 

166 


SUSAN  LENOX 


it's  good— as  good  as  you  get  on  the  average  farm — • 
or  better.  Did  you  ever  eat  the  best  butter?" 

"I  don't  know.     I've  had  some  that  was  very  good." 

"Eighty  cents  a  pound?" 

"Mercy,  no,"  exclaimed  Susan. 

"Awful  price,  isn't  it?  But  worth  the  money — yes, 
sir!  Some  time  when  you've  got  a  little  change  to 
spare,  go  get  half  a  pound  at  one  of  the  swell  groceries 
or  dairies.  And  the  best  milk,  too.  Twelve  cents  a 
quart.  Wait  till  I  get  money.  I'll  show  'em  how  to 
live.  I  was  born  in  a  tenement.  Never  had  nothing. 
Rags  to  wear,  and  food  one  notch  above  a  garbage 
barrel." 

"I  know,"  said  Susan. 

"But  even  as  a  boy  I  wanted  the  high-class  things. 
It's  wanting  the  best  that  makes  a  man  push  his  way 
up." 

Another  customer  came — a  keeper  of  a  butcher  shop, 
on  his  way  to  market.  Susan  finished  the  cakes,  paid 
the  forty  cents  and  prepared  to  depart.  "I'm  looking 
for  a  hotel,"  said  she  to  the  restaurant  man,  "one 
where  they'll  take  me  in  at  this  time,  but  one  that's 
safe — not  a  dive." 

"Right  across  the  square  there's  a  Salvation  Army 
shelter — very  good — clean.  I  don't  know  of  any  other 
place  for  a  lady." 

"There's  a  hotel  on  the  next  corner,"  put  in  the 
butcher,  suspending  the  violent  smacking  and  sipping 
which  attended  his  taking  rolls  and  coffee.  "It  ain't 
neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other.  It's  clean  and 
cheap,  and  they'll  let  you  behave  if  you  want  to." 

"That's  all  I  ask,"  said  the  girl.  "Thank  you." 
And  she  departed,  after  an  exchange  of  friendly  glances 
with  the  restaurant  man.  "I  feel  lots  beiter,"  said  she. 

167 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"It  was  a  good  breakfast,"  replied  he. 

"That  was  only  part.     Good  luck !" 

"Same  to  you,  lady.     Call  again.     Try  my  chops." 

At  the  corner  the  butcher  had  indicated  Susan  found 
the  usual  Raines  Law  hotel,  adjunct  to  a  saloon  and 
open  to  all  comers,  however  "transient."  But  she  took 
the  butcher's  word  for  it,  engaged  a  dollar-and-a-half 
room  from  the  half-asleep  clerk,  was  shown  to  it  by  a 
colored  bellboy  who  did  not  bother  to  wake  up.  It  was 
a  nice  little  room  with  barely  space  enough  for  a  bed, 
a  bureau,  a  stationary  washstand,  a  chair  and  a  small 
radiator.  As  she  undressed  by  the  light  of  a  sad  gray 
dawn,  she  examined  her  dress  to  see  how  far  it  needed 
repair  and  how  far  it  might  be  repaired.  She  had  worn 
away  from  Forty-third  Street  her  cheapest  dress  be 
cause  it  happened  to  be  of  an  inconspicuous  blue.  It 
was  one  of  those  suits  that  look  fairly  well  at  a  glance 
on  the  wax  figure  in  the  department  store  window,  that 
lose  their  bloom  as  quickly  as  a  country  bride,  and  at 
the  fourth  or  fifth  wearing  begin  to  make  frank  and 
sweeping  confession  of  the  cheapness  of  every  bit  of 
the  material  and  labor  that  went  into  them.  These 
suits  are  typical  of  all  that  poverty  compels  upon  the 
poor,  all  that  they  in  their  ignorance  and  inexperience 
of  values  accept  without  complaint,  fancying  they  are 
getting  money's  worth  and  never  dreaming  they  are 
more  extravagant  than  the  most  prodigal  of  the  rich. 
However,  as  their  poverty  gives  them  no  choice,  their 
ignorance  saves  them  from  futilities  of  angry  discon 
tent.  Susan  had  bought  this  dress  because  she  had  to 
have  another  dress  and  could  not  afford  to  spend  more 
than  twelve  dollars,  and  it  had  been  marked  down  from 
twenty-five.  She  had  worn  it  in  fair  weather  and  had 
contrived  to  keep  it  looking  pretty  well.  But  this  rain 

168 


SUSAN  LENOX 


had  finished  it  quite.  Thereafter,  until  she  could  get 
another  dress,  she  must  expect  to  be  classed  as  poor 
and  seedy — therefore,  on  the  way  toward  deeper  pov 
erty — therefore,  an  object  of  pity  and  of  prey.  If  she 
went  into  a  shop,  she  would  be  treated  insultingly  by 
the  shopgirls,  despising  her  as  a  poor  creature  like 
themselves.  If  a  man  approached  her,  he  would  calcu 
late  upon  getting  her  very  cheap  because  a  girl  in  such 
a  costume  could  not  have  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
any  great  sum.  And  if  she  went  with  him,  he  would 
treat  her  with  far  less  consideration  than  if  she  had 
been  about  the  same  business  in  smarter  attire. 

She  spread  the  dress  on  bureau  and  chair,  smooth 
ing  it,  wiping  the  mud  stains  from  it.  She  washed  out 
her  stockings  at  the  stationary  stand,  got  them  as  dry 
as  her  remarkably  strong  hands  could  wring  them,  hung 
them  on  a  rung  of  the  chair  near  the  hot  little  radiator. 
She  cleaned  her  boots  and  overshoes  with  an  old  news 
paper  she  found  in  a  drawer,  and  wet  at  the  washstand. 
She  took  her  hat  to  pieces  and  made  it  over  into  some 
thing  that  looked  almost  fresh  enough  to  be  new. 
Then,  ready  for  bed,  she  got  the  office  of  the  hotel  on 
the  telephone  and  left  a  call  for  half-past  nine  o'clock 
— three  hours  and  a  half  away.  When  she  was  throw 
ing  up  the  window,  she  glanced  into  the  street. 

The  rain  had  once  more  ceased.  Through  the  gray 
dimness  the  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  on  the 
way  to  the  factories  and  shops  for  the  day's  work,  were 
streaming  past  in  funereal  procession.  Some  of  the 
young  ones  were  lively.  But  the  mass  was  sullen  and 
dreary.  Bodies  wrecked  or  rapidly  wrecking  by  igno 
rance  of  hygiene,  by  the  foul  air  and  foul  food  of  the 
tenements,  by  the  monotonous  toil  of  factory  and  shop 
• — mindless  toil — toil  that  took  away  mind  and  put  in 

169 


SUSAN  LENOX 


its  place  a  distaste  for  all  improvement — toil  of  the 
factories  that  distorted  the  body  and  enveloped  the 
soul  in  sodden  stupidity — toil  of  the  shops  that  meant 
breathing  bad  air  all  day  long,  meant  stooped  shoulders 
and  varicose  veins  in  the  legs  and  the  arches  of  the 
insteps  broken  down,  meant  dull  eyes,  bad  skin,  female 
complaints,  meant  the  breeding  of  desires  for  the  luxury 
the  shops  display,  the  breeding  of  envy  and  servility 
toward  those  able  to  buy  these  luxuries. 

Susan  lingered,  fascinated  by  this  exhibit  of  the 
price  to  the  many  of  civilization  for  the  few.  Work? 
Never!  Not  any  more  than  she  would.  "Work"  in  a 
dive !  Work — either  branch  of  it,  factory  and  shop  or 
dive — meant  the  sale  of  all  the  body  and  all  the  soul; 
her  profession — at  least  as  she  practiced  it — meant  that 
perhaps  she  could  buy  with  part  of  body  and  part  of 
soul  the  privilege  of  keeping  the  rest  of  both  for  her 
own  self.  If  she  had  stayed  on  at  work  from  the  begin 
ning  in  Cincinnati,  where  would  she  be  now?  Living 
in  some  stinking  tenement  hole,  with  hope  dead.  And 
how  would  she  be  looking?  As  dull  of  eye  as  the  rest, 
as  pasty  and  mottled  of  skin,  as  ready  for  any  chance 
disease.  Work?  Never!  Never!  "Not  at  anything 
that'd  degrade  me  more  than  this  life.  Yes — more." 
And  she  lifted  her  head  defiantly.  To  her  hunger  Life 
was  thus  far  offering  only  a  plate  of  rotten  apples ;  it 
was  difficult  to  choose  among  them — but  there  was 
choice. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  telephone  bell ;  and  it  kept 
on  ringing  until  she  got  up  and  spoke  to  the  office 
through  the  sender.  Never  had  she  so  craved  sleep; 
and  her  mental  and  physical  contentment  of  three  hours 
and  a  half  before  had  been  succeeded  by  headache,  a 
general  soreness,  a  horrible  attack  of  the  blues.  She 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


grew  somewhat  better,  however,  as  she  washed  first  in 
hot  water,  then  in  cold  at  the  stationary  stand  which 
was  quite  as  efficient  if  not  so  luxurious  as  a  bathtub. 
She  dressed  in  a  rush,  but  not  so  hurriedly  that  she 
failed  to  make  the  best  toilet  the  circumstances  per 
mitted.  Her  hair  went  up  unusually  well;  the  dress 
did  not  look  so  badly  as  she  had  feared  it  would.  "As 
it's  a  nasty  day,"  she  reflected,  "it  won't  do  me  so 
much  damage.  My  hat  and  my  boots  will  make  them 
give  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  think  I'm  saving 
my  good  clothes." 

She  passed  through  the  office  at  five  minutes  to  ten. 
When  she  reached  Lange's  winter  garden,  its  clock  said 
ten  minutes  past  ten,  but  she  knew  it  must  be  fast. 
Only  one  of  the  four  musicians  had  arrived — the  man 
who  played  the  drums,  cymbals,  triangle  and  xylophone 
— a  fat,  discouraged  old  man  who  knew  how  easily  he 
could  be  replaced.  Neither  Lange  nor  his  wife  had 
come;  her  original  friend,  the  Austrian  waiter,  was 
wiping  off  tables  and  cleaning  match  stands.  He  wel 
comed  her  with  a  smile  of  delight  that  showed  how  few 
teeth  remained  in  the  front  of  his  mouth  and  how 
deeply  yellow  they  were.  But  Susan  saw  only  his  eyes 
— and  the  kind  heart  that  looked  through  them. 

"Maybe  you  haven't  had  breakfast  already?"  he  sug 
gested, 

"I'm  not  hungry,  thank  you." 

"Perhaps  some  coffee — yes?" 

Susan  thought  the  coffee  would  make  her  feel  better. 
So  he  brought  it — Vienna  fashion — an  open  china  pot 
full  of  strong,  deliciously  aromatic  black  coffee,  a  jug 
of  milk  with  whipped  white  of  egg  on  top,  a  basket  of 
small  sweet  rolls  powdered  with  sugar  and  caraway 
seed.  She  ate  one  of  the  rolls,  drank  the  coffee.  Be- 

171 


SUSAN  LENOX 


fore  she  had  finished,  the  waiter  stood  beaming  before 
her  and  said: 

"A  cigarette — yes?" 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Susan,  a  little  sadly. 

"But  yes,"  urged  he.  "It  isn't  against  the  rules. 
The  boss's  wife  smokes.  Many  ladies  who  come  here 
do — real  ladies.  It  is  the  custom  in  Europe.  Why 
not?"  And  he  produced  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  put 
it  on  the  table.  Susan  lit  one  of  them  and  once  more 
with  supreme  physical  content  came  a  cheerfulness  that 
put  color  and  sprightliness  into  the  flowers  of  hope. 
And  the  sun  had  won  its  battle  with  the  storm;  the 
storm  was  in  retreat.  Sunshine  was  streaming  in  at 
the  windows,  into  her  heart.  The  waiter  paused  in  his 
work  now  and  then  to  enjoy  himself  in  contemplating 
the  charming  picture  she  made.  She  was  thinking  of 
what  the  wagon  restaurant  man  had  said.  Yes,  Life 
had  been  chipping  away  at  her;  but  she  had  remained 
good  stone,  had  not  become  rubbish. 

About  half-past  ten  Lange  came  down  from  his 
flat  which  was  overhead.  He  inspected  her  by  daylight 
and  finding  that  his  electric  light  impressions  were  not 
delusion  was  highly  pleased  with  her.  He  refused  to 
allow  her  to  pay  for  the  coffee.  "Johann !"  he  called, 
and  the  leader  of  the  orchestra  approached  and  made 
a  respectful  bow  to  his  employer.  He  had  a  solemn 
pompous  air  and  the  usual  pompadour.  He  and  Susan 
plunged  into  the  music  question,  found  that  the  only 
song  they  both  knew  was  Tosti's  "Good  Bye." 

"That'll  do  to  try,"  said  Lange.     "Begin!" 

And  after  a  little  tuning  and  voice  testing,  Susan 
sang  the  "Good  Bye"  with  full  orchestra  accompani 
ment.  It  was  not  good ;  it  was  not  even  pretty  good ; 
but  it  was  not  bad.  "You'll  do  all  right,"  said  Lange. 

m 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"You  can  stay.  Now,  you  and  Johann  fix  up  some 
songs  and  get  ready  for  tonight."  And  he  turned 
away  to  buy  supplies  for  restaurant  and  bar. 

Johann,  deeply  sentimental  by  nature,  was  much 
pleased  with  Susan's  contralto.  "You  do  not  know 
how  to  sing,"  said  he.  "You  sing  in  your  throat  and 
you've  got  all  the  faults  of  parlor  singers.  But  the 
voice  is  there — and  much  expressiveness — much  tem 
perament.  Also,  you  have  intelligence — and  that  will 
make  a  very  little  voice  go  a  great  way." 

Before  proceeding  any  further  with  the  rehearsal,  he 
took  Susan  up  to  a  shop  where  sheet  music  was  sold 
and  they  selected  three  simple  songs:  "Gipsy  Queen," 
"Star  of  My  Life"  and  "Love  in  Dreams."  They  were 
to  try  "Gipsy  Queen"  that  night,  with  "Good  Bye" 
and,  if  the  applause  should  compel,  "Suwanee  River." 

When  they  were  back  at  the  restaurant  Susan  seated 
herself  in  a  quiet  corner  and  proceeded  to  learn  the 
words  of  the  song  and  to  get  some  notion  of  the  tune. 

She  had  lunch  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lange  and  Katy, 
whose  hair  was  very  golden  indeed  and  whose  voice  and 
manner  proclaimed  the  Bowery  and  its  vaudeville  stage. 
She  began  by  being  grand  with  Susan,  but  had  far  too 
good  a  heart  and  far  too  sensible  a  nature  to  keep  up 
long.  It  takes  more  vanity,  more  solemn  stupidity  and 
more  leisure  than  plain  people  have  time  for,  to  main 
tain  the  force  of  fake  dignity.  Before  lunch  was  over 
it  was  Katy  and  Lorna ;  and  Katy  was  distressed  that 
her  duties  at  the  theater  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
stay  and  help  Lorna  with  the  song. 

At  the  afternoon  rehearsal  Susan  distinguished  her 
self.  To  permit  business  in  the  restaurant  and  the  re 
hearsal  at  the  same  time,  there  was  a  curtain  to  divide 
the  big  room  into  two  unequal  parts.  When  Susan 

173 


SUSAN  LENOX 


sang  her  song  through  for  the  first  time  complete,  the 
men  smoking  and  drinking  on  the  other  side  of  the 
curtain  burst  into  applause.  Johann  shook  hands  with 
Susan,  shook  hands  again,  kissed  her  hand,  patted 
her  shoulder.  But  in  the  evening  things  did  not  go  so 
well. 

Susan,  badly  frightened,  got  away  from  the  or 
chestra,  lagged  when  it  speeded  to  catch  up  with  her. 
She  made  a  pretty  and  engaging  figure  in  the  costume, 
low  in  the  neck  and  ending  at  the  knees.  Her  face  and 
shoulders,  her  arms  and  legs,  the  lines  of  her  slender, 
rounded  body  made  a  success.  But  they  barely  saved 
her  from  being  laughed  at.  When  she  finished,  there 
was  no  applause — so  no  necessity  for  an  encore.  She 
ran  upstairs,  and,  with  nerves  all  a-quiver,  hid  herself 
in  the  little  room  she  and  Katy  were  to  share.  Until 
she  failed  she  did  not  realize  how  much  she  had  staked 
upon  this  venture.  But  now  she  knew;  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  her  only  future  was  the  streets.  Again 
her  chance  had  come ;  again  she  had  thrown  it  away.  If 
there  were  anything  in  her — anything  but  mere  vain 
hopes — that  could  not  have  occurred.  In  her  plight 
anyone  with  a  spark  of  the  divinity  that  achieves  suc 
cess  would  have  scored.  "I  belong  in  the  streets,"  said 
she.  Before  dinner  she  had  gone  out  and  had  bought 
a  ninety-five  cent  night-dress  and  some  toilet  articles. 
These  she  now  bundled  together  again.  She  changed  to 
her  street  dress ;  she  stole  down  the  stairs. 

She  was  out  at  the  side  door,  she  was  flying  through 
the  side  street  toward  the  Bowery.  "Hi!"  shouted 
someone  behind  her.  "Where  you  going?"  And  over 
taking  her  came  her  staunch  friend  Albert,  the  waiter. 
Feeling  that  she  must  need  sympathy  and  encourage 
ment,  he  had  slipped  away  from  his  duties  to  go  up  to 


SUSAN  LENOX 


her.  He  had  reached  the  hall  in  time  to  see  what  she 
was  about  and  had  darted  bareheaded  after  her. 

"Where  you  going?"  he  repeated,  excitedly. 

A  crowd  began  to  gather.  "Oh,  good-by,"  she  cried. 
"I'm  getting  out  before  I'm  told  to  go — that's  all.  I 
made  a  failure.  Thank  you,  Albert."  She  put  out  her 
hand ;  she  was  still  moving  and  looking  in  the  direction 
of  the  Bowery. 

"Now  you  mustn't  be  foolish,"  said  he,  holding  on 
tightly  to  her  hand.  "The  boss  says  it's  all  right. 
Tomorrow  you  do  better." 

"I'd  never  dare  try  again." 

"Tomorrow  makes  everything  all  right.  You  mustn't 
act  like  a  baby.  The  first  time  Katy  tried,  they  yelled 
her  off  the  stage.  Now  she  gets  eleven  a  week.  Come 
back  right  away  with  me.  The  boss'd  be  mad  if  you 
won't.  You  ain't  acting  right,  Miss  Lorna.  I  didn't 
think  you  was  such  a  fool." 

He  had  her  attention  now.  Unmindful  of  the  little 
crowd  they  had  gathered,  they  stood  there  discussing 
until  to  save  Albert  from  pneumonia  she  returned  with 
him.  He  saw  her  started  up  the  stairs,  then  ventured 
to  take  his  eye  off  her  long  enough  to  put  his  head  into 
the  winter  garden  and  send  a  waiter  for  Lange.  He 
stood  guard  until  Lange  came  and  was  on  his  way  to 
her. 

The  next  evening,  a  Saturday,  before  a  crowded 
house  she  sang  well,  as  well  as  she  had  ever  sung  in  her 
life — sang  well  enough  to  give  her  beauty  of  face  and 
figure,  her  sweetness,  her  charm  the  opportunity  to  win 
a  success.  She  had  to  come  back  and  sing  "Suwanee 
River."  She  had  to  come  for  a  second  encore;  and, 
flushed  with  her  victory  over  her  timidity,  she  sang 
Tosti's  sad  cry  of  everlasting  farewell  with  all  the  ten- 

175 


SUSAN  LENOX 


derness  there  was  in  her.  That  song  exactly  fitted  her 
passionate,  melancholy  voice ;  its  words  harmonized 
with  the  deep  sadness  that  was  her  real  self,  that  is 
the  real  self  of  every  sensitive  soul  this  world  has  ever 
tried  with  its  exquisite  torments  for  flesh  and  spirit. 
The  tears  that  cannot  be  shed  were  in  her  voice,  in  her 
face,  as  she  stood  there,  with  her  violet-gray  eyes 
straining  into  vacancy.  But  the  men  and  the  women 
shed  tears ;  and  when  she  moved,  breaking  the  spell  of 
silence,  they  not  only  applauded,  they  cheered. 

The  news  quickly  spread  that  at  Lange's  there  was 
a  girl  singer  worth  hearing  and  still  more  worth  looking 
at.  And  Lange  had  his  opportunity  to  arrive. 

But  several  things  stood  in  his  way,  things  a  man  of 
far  more  intelligence  would  have  found  it  hard  to  over 
come. 

Like  nearly  all  saloon-keepers,  he  was  serf  to  a 
brewery;  and  the  particular  brewery  whose  beer  his 
mortgage  compelled  him  to  push  did  not  make  a  beer 
that  could  be  pushed.  People  complained  that  it  had  a 
disagreeably  bitter  aftertaste.  In  the  second  place, 
Mrs.  Lange  was  a  born  sitter.  She  had  married  to 
rest — and  she  was  resting.  She  was  always  piled  upon 
a  chair.  Thus,  she  was  not  an  aid  but  a  hindrance,  an 
encourager  of  the  help  in  laziness  and  slovenliness. 
Again,  the  cooking  was  distinctly  bad ;  the  only  really 
good  thing  the  house  served  was  coffee,  and  that  was 
good  only  in  the  mornings.  Finally,  Lange  was  a  saver 
by  nature  and  not  a  spreader.  He  could  hold  tightly 
to  any  money  he  closed  his  stubby  fingers  upon;  he 
did  not  know  how  to  plant  money  and  make  it  grow, 
but  only  how  to  hoard. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  the  first  spurt,  the 
business  fell  back  to  about  where  it  had  been  before 

176 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Susan  came.  Albert,  the  Austrian  waiter,  explained  to 
Susan  why  it  was  that  her  popularity  did  the  house 
apparently  so  little  good — explained  with  truth  where 
she  suspected  kind-hearted  plotting,  that  she  had  ar 
rested  its  latterly  swift-downward  slide.  She  was  glad 
to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  as  it  was  most  pleasant  to 
her  vanity ;  but  she  could  not  get  over  the  depression 
of  the  central  fact — she  was  not  making  the  sort  of 
business  to  justify  asking  Lange  for  more  than  board 
and  lodging;  she  was  not  in  the  way  of  making  the 
money  that  was  each  day  more  necessary,  as  her  little 
store  dwindled. 

The  question  of  getting  money  to  live  on  is  usually 
dismissed  in  a  princely  way  by  writers  about  human 
life.  It  is  in  reality,  except  with  the  few  rich,  the 
ever-present  question — as  ever-present  as  the  necessity 
of  breathing — and  it  is  not,  like  breathing,  a  matter 
settled  automatically.  It  dominates  thought;  it  de 
termines  action.  To  leave  it  out  of  account  ever,  in 
writing  a  human  history,  is  to  misrepresent  and  distort 
as  utterly  as  would  a  portrait  painter  who  neglected 
to  give  his  subject  eyes,  or  a  head,  even.  With  the 
overwhelming  mass  of  us,  money  is  at  all  times  all  our 
lives  long  the  paramount  question — for  to  be  without 
it  is  destruction  worse  than  death,  and  we  are  almost 
all  perilously  near  to  being  without  it.  Thus,  airily  to 
pass  judgment  upon  men  and  women  as  to  their  doings 
in  getting  money  for  necessaries,  for  what  the  com 
pulsion  of  custom  and  habit  has  made  necessaries  to 
them — airily  to  judge  them  for  their  doings  in  such 
dire  straits  is  like  sitting  calmly  on  shore  and  criti 
cizing  the  conduct  of  passengers  and  sailors  in  a  storm- 
beset  sinking  ship.  It  is  one  of  the  favorite  pastimes 
of  the  comfortable  classes;  it  makes  an  excellent  im- 

177 


SUSAN  LENOX 


pression  as  to  one's  virtue  upon  one's  audience ;  it  gives 
us  a  pleasing  sense  of  superior  delicacy  and  humor. 
But  it  is  none  the  less  mean  and  ridiculous.  Instead  of 
condemnation,  the  world  needs  to  bestir  itself  to  remove 
the  stupid  and  cruel  creatures  that  make  evil  conduct 
necessary;  for  can  anyone,  not  a  prig,  say  that  the 
small  part  of  the  human  race  that  does  well  does  so 
because  it  is  naturally  better  than  the  large  part  that 
does  ill? 

Spring  was  slow  in  opening.  Susan's  one  dress  was 
in  a  deplorable  state.  The  lining  hung  in  rags.  The 
never  good  material  was  stretched  out  of  shape,  was 
frayed  and  worn  gray  in  spots,  was  beyond  being  made 
up  as  presentable  by  the  most  careful  pressing  and 
cleaning.  She  had  been  forced  to  buy  a  hat,  shoes, 
underclothes.  She  had  only  three  dollars  and  a  few 
cents  left,  and  she  simply  did  not  dare  lay  it  all  out 
in  dress  materials.  Yet,  less  than  all  would  not  be 
enough;  all  would  not  be  enough. 

Lange  had  from  time  to  time  more  than  hinted  at 
the  opportunities  she  was  having  as  a  public  singer  in 
his  hall.  But  Susan,  for  all  her  experience,  had  re 
mained  one  of  those  upon  whom  such  opportunities 
must  be  thrust  if  they  are  to  be  accepted. 

So  long  as  she  had  food  and  shelter,  she  could  not 
make  advances ;  she  could  not  even  go  so  far  as  passive 
acquiescence.  She  knew  she  was  again  violating  the 
fundamental  canon  of  success ;  whatever  one's  business, 
do  it  thoroughly  if  at  all.  But  she  could  not  overcome 
her  temperament  which  had  at  this  feeble  and  false 
opportunity  at  once  resented  itself.  She  knew  per 
fectly  that  therein  was  the  whole  cause  of  her  failure 
to  make  the  success  she  ought  to  have  made  when  she 
came  up  from  the  tenements,  and  again  when  she  fell 

178 


SUSAN  LENOX 


into  the  clutches  of  Freddie  Palmer.  But  it  is  one 
thing  to  know ;  it  is  another  thing  to  do.  Susan  ignored 
the  attempts  of  the  men;  she  pretended  not  to  under 
stand  Lange  when  they  set  him  on  to  intercede  with 
her  for  them.  She  saw  that  she  was  once  more  drifting 
to  disaster — and  that  she  had  not  long  to  drift.  She 
was  exasperated  against  herself;  she  was  disgusted 
with  herself.  But  she  drifted  on. 

Growing  seedier  looking  every  day,  she  waited,  de 
fying  the  plain  teachings  of  experience.  She  even 
thought  seriously  of  going  to  work.  But  the  situation 
in  that  direction  remained  unchanged.  She  was  seeing 
things,  the  reasons  for  things,  more  clearly  now,  as 
experience  developed  her  mind.  She  felt  that  to  get 
on  in  respectability  she  ought  to  have  been  either  more 
or  less  educated.  If  she  had  been  used  from  birth  to 
conditions  but  a  step  removed  from  savagery,  she 
might  have  been  content  with  what  offered,  might  even 
have  felt  that  she  was  rising.  Or  if  she  had  been  bred 
to  a  good  trade,  and  educated  only  to  the  point  where 
her  small  earnings  could  have  satisfied  her  desires, 
then  she  might  have  got  along  in  respectability.  But 
she  had  been  bred  a  "lady" ;  a  Chinese  woman  whose 
feet  have  been  bound  from  babyhood  until  her  fifteenth 
or  sixteenth  year — how  long  it  would  be,  after  her  feet 
were  freed,  before  she  could  learn  to  walk  at  all ! — and 
would  she  ever  be  able  to  learn  to  walk  well? 

What  is  luxury  for  one  is  squalor  for  another ;  what 
is  elevation  for  one  degrades  another.  In  respecta 
bility  she  could  not  earn  what  was  barest  necessity 
for  her — what  she  was  now  getting  at  Lange's — 
decent  shelter,  passable  food.  Ejected  from  her  own 
class  that  shelters  its  women  and  brings  them  up  in 
unfitness  for  the  unsheltered  life,  she  was  dropping 

179 


SUSAN  LENOX 


as  all  such  women  must  and  do  drop — was  going 
down,  down,  down — striking  on  this  ledge  and  that, 
and  rebounding  to  resume  her  ever  downward  course. 

She  saw  her  own  plight  only  too  vividly.  Those 
whose  outward  and  inward  lives  are  wide  apart  get  a 
strong  sense  of  dual  personality.  It  was  thus  with 
Susan.  There  were  times  when  she  could  not  believe 
in  the  reality  of  her  external  life. 

She  often  glanced  through  the  columns  on  columns, 
pages  on  pages  of  "want  ads"  in  the  papers — not  with 
the  idea  of  answering  them,  for  she  had  served  her 
apprenticeship  at  that,  but  simply  to  force  herself  to 
realize  vividly  just  how  matters  stood  with  her.  Those 
columns  and  pages  of  closely  printed  offerings  of  work ! 
Dreary  tasks,  all  of  them — tasks  devoid  of  interest,  of 
personal  sense  of  usefulness,  tasks  simply  to  keep  de 
grading  soul  in  degenerating  body,  tasks  performed  in 
filthy  factories,  in  foul-smelling  workrooms  and  shops, 
in  unhealthful  surroundings.  And  this,  throughout 
civilization,  was  the  "honest  work"  so  praised — by  all 
who  don't  do  it,  but  live  pleasantly  by  making  others 
do  it.  Wasn't  there  something  in  the  ideas  of  Etta's 
father,  old  Tom  Brashear?  Couldn't  sensible,  really 
loving  people  devise  some  way  of  making  most  tasks 
less  repulsive,  of  lessening  the  burdens  of  those  tasks 
that  couldn't  be  anything  but  repulsive?  Was  this 
stupid  system,  so  cruel,  so  crushing,  and  producing  at 
the  top  such  absurd  results  as  flashy,  insolent  autos 
and  silly  palaces  and  overfed,  overdressed  women,  and 
dogs  in  jeweled  collars,  and  babies  of  wealth  brought 
up  by  low  menials — was  this  system  really  the  best? 

"If  they'd  stop  canting  about  'honest  work'  they 
might  begin  to  get  somewhere." 

In  the  effort  to  prevent  her  downward  drop  from 
180 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


beginning  again  she  searched  all  the  occupations  open 
to  her.  She  could  not  find  one  that  would  not  have 
meant  only  the  most  visionary  prospect  of  some  slight 
remote  advancement,  and  the  certain  and  speedy  de 
struction  of  what  she  now  realized  was  her  chief  asset 
and  hope — her  personal  appearance.  And  she  resolved 
that  she  would  not  even  endanger  it  ever  again.  The 
largest  part  of  the  little  capital  she  took  away  from 
Forty-third  Street  had  gone  to  a  dentist  who  put  in 
several  fillings  of  her  back  teeth.  She  had  learned  to 
value  every  charm — hair,  teeth,  eyes,  skin,  figure, 
hands.  She  watched  over  them  all,  because  she  felt 
that  when  her  day  finally  came — and  come  it  would, 
she  never  allowed  long  to  doubt — she  must  be  ready  to 
enter  fully  into  her  own.  Her  day!  The  day  when 
fate  should  change  the  life  of  her  outward  self  would 
be  compelled  to  live,  would  bring  it  into  harmony  with 
the  life  of  inward  self — the  self  she  could  control. 
Her  day !  It  would  never  come  to  her  in  these  surround 
ings.  She  must  go  and  seek  it. 


SHE  was  like  one  who  has  fallen  bleeding  and  bro 
ken  into  a  cave ;  who  after  a  time  gathers  himself 
together  and  crawls  toward  a  faint  and  far  dis 
tant  gleam  of  light;  who  suddenly  sees  the  light  no 
more  and  at  the  same  instant  lurches  forward  and 
down  into  a  deeper  chasm. 

Occasionally  sheer  exhaustion  of  nerves  made  it  im 
possible  for  her  to  drink  herself  again  into  apathy  be 
fore  the  effects  of  the  last  doses  of  the  poison  had  worn 
off.  In  these  intervals  of  partial  awakening — she  never 
permitted  them  to  lengthen  out,  as  such  sensation  as 
she  had  was  of  one  falling — falling — through  empty 
space — with  whirling  brain  and  strange  sounds  in  the 
ears  and  strange  distorted  sights  or  hallucinations  be 
fore  the  eyes — falling  down — down — whither? — to  how 
great  a  depth? — or  was  there  no  bottom,  but  simply 
presently  a  plunging  on  down  into  the  black  of  death's 
bottomless  oblivion? 

Drink — always  drink.  Yet  in  every  other  way  she 
took  care  of  her  health — a  strange  mingling  of  pru 
dence  and  subtle  hope  with  recklessness  and  frank  de 
spair.  All  her  refinement,  baffled  in  the  moral  ways, 
concentrated  upon  the  physical.  She  would  be  neat 
and  well  dressed ;  she  would  not  let  herself  be  seized  of 
the  diseases  on  the  pariah  in  those  regions — the  diseases 
through  dirt  and  ignorance  and  indifference. 

In  the  regions  she  now  frequented  recklessness  was 
the  keynote.  There  was  the  hilarity  of  the  doomed; 
there  was  the  cynical  or  stolid  indifference  to  heat  or 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


cold,  to  rain  or  shine,  to  rags,  to  filth,  to  jail,  to  ejec 
tion  for  nonpayment  of  rent,  to  insult  of  word  or 
blow.  The  fire  engines — the  ambulance — the  patrol 
wagon — the  city  dead  wagon — these  were  all  ever  pass 
ing  and  repassing  through  those  swarming  streets.  It 
was  the  vastest,  the  most  populous  tenement  area  of 
the  city.  Its  inhabitants  represented  the  common  lot 
— for  it  is  the  common  lot  of  the  overwhelming  mass 
of  mankind  to  live  near  to  nakedness,  to  shelterlessness, 
to  starvation,  without  ever  being  quite  naked  or  quite 
roofless  or  quite  starved.  The  masses  are  eager  for 
the  necessities;  the  classes  are  eager  for  the  comforts 
and  luxuries.  The  masses  are  ignorant ;  the  classes  are 
intelligent — or,  at  least,  shrewd.  The  unconscious  and 
inevitable  exploitation  of  the  masses  by  the  classes  au 
tomatically  and  of  necessity  stops  just  short  of  the 
catastrophe  point — for  the  masses  must  have  enough 
to  give  them  the  strength  to  work  and  reproduce.  To 
go  down  through  the  social  system  as  had  Susan  from 
her  original  place  well  up  among  the  classes  is  like  de 
scending  from  the  beautiful  dining  room  of  the  palace 
where  the  meat  is  served  in  taste  and  refinement  upon 
costly  dishes  by  well  mannered  servants  to  attractively 
dressed  people — descending  along  the  various  stages  of 
the  preparation  of  the  meat,  at  each  stage  less  of  re 
finement  and  more  of  coarseness,  until  one  at  last  ar 
rives  at  the  slaughter  pen.  The  shambles,  stinking  and 
reeking  blood  and  filth!  The  shambles,  with  hideous 
groan  or  shriek,  or  more  hideous  silent  look  of  agony ! 
The  shambles  of  society  where  the  beauty  and  grace 
and  charm  of  civilization  are  created  out  of  noisome 
sweat  and  savage  toil,  out  of  the  health  and  strength  of 
men  and  women  and  children,  out  of  their  ground  up 
bodies,  out  of  their  ground  up  souls.  Susan  knew  those 

183 


SUSAN  LENOX 


regions  well.  She  had  no  theories  about  them,  no  re 
sentment  against  the  fortunate  classes,  no  notion  that 
any  other  or  better  system  might  be  possible,  any  other 
or  better  life  for  the  masses.  She  simply  accepted  life 
as  she  found  it,  lived  it  as  best  she  could. 

Throughout  the  masses  of  mankind  life  is  sustained 
by  illusions — illusions  of  a  better  lot  tomorrow,  illu 
sions  of  a  heaven  beyond  a  grave,  where  the  nightmare, 
life  in  the  body,  will  end  and  the  reality,  life  in  the 
spirit,  will  begin.  She  could  not  join  the  throngs 
moving  toward  church  and  synagogue  to  indulge  in 
their  dream  that  the  present  was  a  dream  from  which 
death  would  be  a  joyful  awakening.  She  alternately 
pitied  and  envied  them.  She  had  her  own  dream  that 
this  dream,  the  present,  would  end  in  a  joyful  awaken 
ing  to  success  and  freedom  and  light  and  beauty.  She 
admitted  to  herself  that  the  dream  was  probably  an 
illusion,  like  that  of  the  pious  throngs.  But  she  was 
as  unreasonably  tenacious  of  her  dream  as  they  were 
of  theirs.  She  dreamed  it  because  she  was  a  human 
being — and  to  be  human  means  to  hope,  and  to  hope 
means  to  dream  of  a  brighter  future  here  or  hereafter, 
or  both  here  and  hereafter.  The  earth  is  peopled  with 
dreamers ;  she  was  but  one  of  them.  The  last  thought 
of  despair  as  the  black  earth  closes  is  a  hope,  perhaps 
the  most  colossal  of  hope's  delusions,  that  there  will 
be  escape  in  the  grave. 

There  is  the  time  when  we  hope  and  know  it  and 
believe  in  it.  There  is  the  time  when  we  hope  and 
know  it  but  have  ceased  to  believe  in  it.  There  is  the 
time  when  we  hope,  believing  that  we  have  altogether 
ceased  to  hope.  That  time  had  come  for  Susan.  She 
seemed  to  think  about  the  present.  She  moved  about 
like  a  sleepwalker. 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


What  women  did  she  know — what  men?  She  only 
dimly  remembered  from  day  to  day — from  hour  to 
hour.  Blurred  faces  passed  before  her,  blurred  voices 
sounded  in  her  ears,  blurred  personalities  touched  hers. 
It  was  like  the  jostling  of  a  huge  crowd  in  night  streets. 
A  vague  sense  of  buffetings — of  rude  contacts — of  mo 
mentary  sensations  of  pain,  of  shame,  of  disgust,  all 
blunted  and  soon  forgotten. 

In  estimating  suffering,  physical  or  mental,  to  fail 
to  take  into  account  a  more  important  factor — the 
merciful  paralysis  or  partial  paralysis  of  any  center 
of  sensibility — that  is  insistently  assaulted. 

She  no  longer  had  headaches  or  nausea  after  drink 
ing  deeply.  And  where  formerly  it  had  taken  many 
stiff  doses  of  liquor  to  get  her  into  the  state  of  reck 
lessness  or  of  indifference,  she  was  now  able  to  put  her 
self  into  the  mood  in  which  life  was  endurable  with  two 
or  three  drinks,  often  with  only  one.  The  most  marked 
change  was  that  never  by  any  chance  did  she  become 
gay ;  the  sky  over  her  life  was  steadily  gray — gray  or 
black,  to  gray  again — never  lighter. 

How  far  she  had  fallen !  But  swift  descent  or  gradual, 
she  had  adapted  herself — had,  in  fact,  learned  by  much 
experience  of  disaster  to  mitigate  the  calamities,  to 
have  something  to  keep  a  certain  deep-lying  self  of  selfs 
intact — unaffected  by  what  she  had  been  forced  to 
undergo.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  she  could  get  the 
chance — or  could  cure  herself  of  the  blindness  which 
was  always  preventing  her  from  seeing  and  seizing  the 
chance  that  doubtless  offered  again  and  again — she 
could  shed  the  surface  her  mode  of  life  had  formed 
over  her  and  would  find  underneath  a  new  real  surface, 
stronger,  sightly,  better  able  to  bear — like  the  skin 
that  forms  beneath  the  healing  wound. 

185 


SUSAN  LENOX 


In  these  tenements,  as  in  all  tenements  of  all  de 
grees,  she  and  the  others  of  her  class  were  fiercely  re 
sented  by  the  heads  of  families  where  there  was  any 
hope  left  to  impel  a  striving  upward.  She  had  the  best 
furnished  room  in  the  tenement.  She  was  the  best 
dressed  woman — a  marked  and  instantly  recognizable 
figure  because  of  her  neat  and  finer  clothes.  Her  pro 
fession  kept  alive  and  active  the  instincts  for  care  of 
the  person  that  either  did  not  exist  or  were  momen 
tary  and  feeble  in  the  respectable  women.  The  sloven 
liness,  the  scurrilousness  of  even  the  wives  and  daugh 
ters  of  the  well-to-do  and  the  rich  of  that  region 
would  not  have  been  tolerated  in  any  but  the  lowest 
strata  of  her  profession,  hardly  even  in  those  sought 
by  men  of  the  laboring  class.  Also,  the  deep  horror  of 
disease,  which  her  intelligence  never  for  an  instant  per 
mitted  to  relax  its  hold,  made  her  particular  and  care 
ful  when  in  other  circumstances  drink  might  have  re 
duced  her  to  squalor.  She  spent  all  her  leisure  time — 
for  she  no  longer  read — in  the  care  of  her  person. 

She  was  watched  with  frightened,  yet  longing  and 
curious,  eyes  by  all  the  girls  who  were  at  work.  The 
mothers  hated  her;  many  of  them  spat  upon  the 
ground  after  she  had  passed. 

To  speak  of  the  conditions  there  as  a  product  of 
civilization  is  to  show  ignorance  of  the  history  of  our 
race,  is  to  fancy  that  we  are  civilized  today,  when  in 
fact  we  are — historically — in  a  turbulent  and  painful 
period  of  transition  from  a  better  yesterday  toward  a 
tomorrow  in  which  life  will  be  worth  living  as  it  never 
has  been  before  in  all  the  ages  of  duration.  In  this 
today  of  movement  toward  civilization  which  began 
with  the  discovery  of  iron  and  will  end  when  we  shall 
have  discovered  how  to  use  for  the  benefit  of  all  the 

186 


SUSAN  LENOX 


main  forces  of  nature — in  this  today  of  agitation  inci 
dent  to  journeying,  we  are  in  some  respects  better  off, 
in  other  respects  worse  off,  than  the  race  was  ten  or 
fifteen  thousand  years  ago.  We  have  lost  much  of  the 
freedom  that  was  ours  before  the  rise  of  governments 
and  ruling  classes:  we  have  gained  much — not  so  much 
as  the  ignorant  and  the  unthinking  and  the  unedu 
cated  imagine,  but  still  much.  In  the  end  we — which 
means  the  masses  of  us — will  gain  infinitely.  But 
gain  or  loss  has  not  been  in  so-called  morality.  There 
is  not  a  virtue  that  has  not  existed  from  time  ages 
before  record.  Not  a  vice  which  is  shallowly  called 
"effete"  or  the  "product  of  overcivilization,"  but  origi 
nated  before  man  was  man. 

To  speak  of  the  conditions  in  which  Susan  Lenox 
now  lived  as  savagery  is  to  misuse  the  word.  Every 
transitional  stage  is  accompanied  by  a  disintegration. 
Savagery  was  a  settled  state  in  which  every  man  and 
every  woman  had  his  or  her  fixed  position,  settled  du 
ties  and  rights.  With  the  downfall  of  savagery,  with 
the  beginning  of  the  journey  toward  that  hope  of  to 
morrow,  civilization,  everything  in  the  relations  of  men 
with  men  and  men  with  women,  became  unsettled. 
Such  social  systems  as  the  world  has  known  since  have 
all  been  makeshift  and  temporary — like  our  social  sys 
tems  of  today,  like  the  moral  and  extinct  codes  rising 
and  sinking  in  power  over  a  vast  multitude  of  emi 
grants  moving  from  a  distant  abandoned  home  toward 
a  distant  promised  land  and  forced  to  live  as  best  they 
can  in  the  interval.  In  the  historic  day's  journey  of 
perhaps  fifteen  thousand  years  our  present  time  is  but 
a  brief  second.  In  that  second  there  has  come  a  break 
ing  up  of  the  makeshift  organization  which  long 
served  the  working  multitudes  fairly  well.  The  result 

187 


SUSAN  LENOX 


is  an  anarchy  in  which  the  strong  oppress  the  weak,  in 
which  the  masses  are  being  crushed  by  the  burdens  im 
posed  upon  them  by  the  classes.  And  in  that  particu 
lar  part  of  the  human  race  en  route  into  which  fate 
had  flung  Susan  Lenox  conditions  not  of  savagery  but 
of  primitive  chaos  were  prevailing.  A  large  part  of 
the  population  lived  off  the  unhappy  workers  by  pros 
titution,  by  thieving,  by  petty  swindling,  by  politics, 
by  the  various  devices  in  coarse,  crude  and  small  imi 
tation  of  the  devices  employed  by  the  ruling  classes. 
And  these  petty  parasites  imitated  the  big  parasites  in 
their  ways  of  spending  their  dubiously  got  gains.  To 
have  a  "good  time"  was  the  ideal  here  as  in  idle  Fifth 
Avenue;  and  the  notions  of  a  "good  time"  in  vogue  in 
the  two  opposite  quarters  differed  in  degree  rather 
than  in  kind. 

Nothing  to  think  about  but  the  appetites  and  their 
vices.  Nothing  to  hope  for  but  the  next  carouse. 
Susan  had  brought  down  with  her  from  above  one  de 
sire  unknown  to  her  associates  and  neighbors — the  de 
sire  to  forget.  If  she  could  only  forget!  If  the 
poison  would  not  wear  off  at  times ! 

She  could  not  quite  forget.  And  to  be  unable  to 
forget  is  to  remember — and  to  remember  is  to  long — 
and  to  long  is  to  hope. 

Several  times  she  heard  of  Freddie  Palmer.  Twice 
she  chanced  upon  his  name  in  the  newspaper — an  inci 
dental  reference  to  him  in  connection  with  local  poli 
tics.  The  other  times  were  when  men  talking  together 
in  the  drinking  places  frequented  by  both  sexes  spoke 
of  him  as  a  minor  power  in  the  organization.  Each 
time  she  got  a  sense  of  her  remoteness,  of  her  security. 
Once  she  passed  in  Grand  Street  a  detective  she  had 
often  seen  with  him  in  Considine's  at  Broadway  and 

188 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Forty-second.  The  "bull"  looked  sharply  at  her. 
Her  heart  stood  still.  But  he  went  on  without  rec 
ognizing  her.  The  sharp  glance  had  been  simply  that 
official  expression  of  see-all  and  know-all  which  is 
mere  formality,  part  of  the  official  livery,  otherwise 
meaningless.  However,  it  is  not  to  that  detective's 
discredit  that  he  failed  to  recognize  her.  She  had 
adapted  herself  to  her  changed  surroundings. 

Because  she  was  of  a  different  and  higher  class,  and 
because  she  picked  and  chose  her  company,  even  when 
drink  had  beclouded  her  senses  and  instinct  alone  re 
mained  on  drowsy  guard,  she  prospered  despite  her 
indifference.  For  that  region  had  its  aristocracy  of 
rich  merchants,  tenement-owners,  politicians  whose  sons, 
close  imitators  of  the  uptown  aristocracies  in  manners 
and  dress,  spent  money  freely  in  the  amusements  that 
attract  nearly  all  young  men  everywhere.  Susan 
made  almost  as  much  as  she  could  have  made  in  the 
more  renowned  quarters  of  the  town.  And  presently 
she  was  able  to  move  into  a  tenement  which,  except  for 
two  workingmen's  families  of  a  better  class,  was  given 
over  entirely  to  fast  women.  It  was  much  better 
kept,  much  cleaner,  much  better  furnished  than  the 
tenements  for  workers  chiefly;  they  could  not  afford 
decencies,  much  less  luxuries.  All  that  sort  of  thing 
was,  for  the  neighborhood,  concentrated  in  the  sa 
loons,  the  dance  halls,  the  fast  houses  and  the  fast 
flats. 

Her  walks  in  Grand  Street  and  the  Bowery,  repel 
ling  and  capricious  though  she  was  with  her  alternat 
ing  moods  of  cold  moroseness  and  sardonic  and  mock 
ing  gayety,  were  bringing  her  in  a  good  sum  of 
money  for  that  region.  Sometimes  as  much  as  twenty 
dollars  a  week,  rarely  less  than  twelve  or  fifteen.  And 
23  189 


SUSAN  LENOX 


despite  her  drinking  and  her  freehandedness  with  her 
fellow-professionals  less  fortunate  and  with  the  street 
beggars  and  for  tenement  charities,  she  had  in  her 
stockings  a  capital  of  thirty-one  dollars. 

She  avoided  the  tough  places,  the  hang-outs  of  the 
gangs.  She  rarely  went  alone  into  the  streets  at  night 
— and  the  afternoons  were,  luckily,  best  for  business 
as  well  as  for  safety.  She  made  no  friends  and  there 
fore  no  enemies.  Without  meaning  to  do  so  and 
without  realizing  that  she  did  so,  she  held  herself  aloof 
without  haughtiness  through  sense  of  loneliness,  not  at 
all  through  sense  of  superiority.  Had  it  not  been  for 
her  scarlet  lips,  a  far  more  marked  sign  in  that  region 
than  anywhere  uptown,  she  would  have  passed  in  the 
street  for  a  more  or  less  respectable  woman — not  thor 
oughly  respectable ;  she  was  too  well  dressed,  too  in 
telligently  cared  for  to  seem  the  good  working  girl. 

On  one  of  the  few  nights  when  she  lingered  in  the 
little  back  room  of  the  saloon  a  few  doors  away  at 
the  corner,  as  she  entered  the  dark  passageway  of  the 
tenement,  strong  fingers  closed  upon  her  throat  and 
she  was  borne  to  the  floor.  She  knew  at  once  that  she 
was  in  the  clutch  of  one  of  those  terrors  of  tenement 
women,  the  lobbygows — -men  who  live  by  lying  in  wait 
in  the  darkness  to  seize  and  rob  the  lonely,  friendless 
woman.  She  struggled — and  she  was  anything  but 
weak.  But  not  a  sound  could  escape  from  her  tight- 
pressed  throat. 

One  of  the  workingmen,  returning  drunk  from  the 
meeting  of  the  union,  in  the  corner  saloon,  stumbled 
over  her,  gave  her  a  kick  in  his  anger.  This  roused 
her;  she  uttered  a  faint  cry. 

"Never  mind  me,"  said  Susan.  "I  was  only 
stunned." 

190 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Oh,  I  thought  it  was  the  booze." 

"No — a  lobbygow." 

"How  much  did  he  get?" 

"About  thirty-five." 

"The  hell  he  did!     Want  me  to  call  a  cop?" 

"No,"  replied  Susan,  who  was  on  her  feet  again. 
"What's  the  use?" 

"I'll  help  you  upstairs." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  she.  Not  that  she  did  not 
need  help. 

She  went  upstairs,  the  man  waiting  below  until  she 
should  be  safe — and  out  of  the  way.  She  staggered 
into  her  room,  tottered  to  the  bed,  fell  upon  it.  A 
girl  named  Clara,  who  lived  across  the  hall,  was  sitting 
in  a  rocking-chair  reading  a  Bertha  Clay  novel  and 
smoking  a  cigarette.  She  glanced  up,  was  arrested 
by  the  strange  look  in  Susan's  eyes. 

"Hello — been  hitting  the  pipe,  I  see,"  said  she. 
"Down  in  Gussie's  room?" 

"No.     A  lobbygow,"  said  Susan. 

"Did  he  get  much?" 

"About  thirty-five." 

"I'll  bet  it  was  Gussie's  fellow.  I've  suspected  him," 
cried  Clara. 

The  greater  the  catastrophe,  the  longer  the  time 
before  it  is  fully  realized.  Susan's  loss  of  the  money 
that  represented  so  much  of  savage  if  momentary  hor 
ror,  and  so  much  of  unconscious  hope — this  calamity 
did  not  overwhelm  her  for  several  days.  Then  she 
yielded  for  the  first  time  to  the  lure  of  opium.  She  had 
listened  longingly  to  the  descriptions  of  the  delights  as 
girls  and  men  told;  for  practically  all  of  them  smoked 
— or  took  cocaine.  But  to  Clara's  or  Gussie's  invita 
tions  to  join  the  happy  band  of  dreamers,  she  had 

191 


SUSAN  LENOX 


always  replied,  "Not  yet.  I'm  saving  that."  Now, 
however,  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come.  Hope  in  this 
world  she  had  none.  Before  the  black  adventure,  why 
not  try  the  world  of  blissful  unreality  to  which  it  gave 
entrance?  Why  leave  life  until  she  had  exhausted  all 
it  put  within  her  reach? 

She  went  to  Gussie's  room  at  midnight  and  flung 
herself  down  in  a  wrapper  upon  a  couch  opposite  a 
sallow,  delicate  young  man.  His  great  dark  eyes  were 
gazing  unseeingly  at  her,  were  perhaps  using  her  as  an 
outline  sketch  from  which  his  imagination  could  pic 
ture  a  beauty  of  loveliness  beyond  human.  Gussie 
taught  her  how  to  prepare  the  little  ball  of  opium, 
how  to  put  it  on  the  pipe  and  draw  in  its  fumes.  Her 
system  was  so  well  prepared  for  it  by  the  poisons  she 
had  drunk  that  she  had  satisfactory  results  from  the 
outset.  And  she  entered  upon  the  happiest  period  of 
her  life  thus  far.  All  the  hideousness  of  her  profession 
disappeared  under  the  gorgeous  draperies  of  the  imagi 
nation.  Opium's  magic  transformed  the  vile,  the  ob 
scene,  into  the  lofty,  the  romantic,  the  exalted.  The 
world  she  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  real  ceased 
to  be  even  the  blur  the  poisonous  liquors  had  made  of 
it,  became  a  vague,  distant  thing  seen  in  a  dream.  Her 
opium  world  became  the  vivid  reality. 

The  life  she  had  been  leading  had  made  her  ex 
tremely  thin,  had  hardened  and  dulled  her  eyes,  had 
given  her  that  sad,  shuddering  expression  of  the  face 
upon  which  have  beaten  a  thousand  mercenary  and 
lustful  kisses.  The  opium  soon  changed  all  this.  Her 
skin,  always  tending  toward  pallor,  became  of  the  dead 
amber-white  of  old  ivory.  Her  thinness  took  on  an 
ethereal  transparency  that  gave  charm  even  to  her 
slight  stoop.  Her  face  became  dreamy,  exalted,  rapt; 

192 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  her  violet-gray  eyes  looked  from  it  like  the  vents 
of  poetical  fires  burning  without  ceasing  upon  an  altar 
to  the  god  of  dreams.  Never  had  she  been  so  beautiful ; 
never  had  she  been  so  happy — not  with  the  coarser 
happiness  of  dancing  eye  and  laughing  lip,  but  with 
the  ecstasy  of  soul  that  is  like  the  shimmers  of  a  tran 
quil  sea  quivering  rhythmically  under  the  caresses  of 
moonlight. 

In  her  descent  she  had  now  reached  that  long  narrow 
shelf  along  which  she  would  walk  so  long  as  health  and 
looks  should  last — unless  some  accident  should  topple 
her  off  on  the  one  side  into  suicide  or  on  the  other 
side  into  the  criminal  prostitute  class.  And  such  ac 
cidents  were  likely  to  happen.  Still  there  was  a  fair 
chance  of  her  keeping  her  balance  until  loss  of  looks 
and  loss  of  health — the  end  of  the  shelf — should  drop 
her  abruptly  to  the  very  bottom.  She  could  guess  what 
was  there.  Every  day  she  saw  about  the  streets,  most 
wretched  and  most  forlorn  of  its  wretched  and  for 
lorn  things,  the  solitary  old  women,  bent  and  twisted, 
wrapped  in  rotting  rags,  picking  papers  and  tobacco 
from  the  gutters  and  burrowing  in  garbage  barrels, 
seeking  somehow  to  get  the  drink  or  the  dope  that 
changed  hell  into  heaven  for  them. 

Despite  liquor  and  opium  and  the  degradations  of 
the  street-woman's  life  she  walked  that  narrow  ledge 
with  curious  steadiness.  She  was  unconscious  of  the 
jause.  Indeed,  self-consciousness  had  never  been  one 
of  her  traits.  The  cause  is  interesting. 

In  our  egotism,  in  our  shame  of  what  we  ignorantly 
regard  as  the  lowliness  of  our  origin  we  are  always 
seeking  alleged  lofty  spiritual  explanations  of  our 
loings,  and  overlook  the  actual,  quite  simple,  real  rea 
son.  One  of  the  strongest  factors  in  Susan's  holding 

193 


SUSAN  LENOX 


herself  together  in  face  of  overwhelming  odds,  was  the 
nearly  seventeen  years  of  early  training  her  Aunt 
Fanny  Warham  had  given  her  in  orderly  and  system 
atic  ways — a  place  for  everything  and  everything  in 
its  place;  a  time  for  everything  and  everything  at  its 
time,  neatness,  scrupulous  cleanliness,  no  neglecting  of 
any  of  the  small,  yet  large,  matters  that  conserve  the 
body.  Susan  had  not  been  so  apt  a  pupil  of  Fanny 
Warham's  as  was  Ruth,  because  Susan  had  not  Ruth's 
nature  of  the  old-maidish,  cut-and-dried  conventional. 
But  during  the  whole  fundamentally  formative  period 
of  her  life  Susan  Lenox  had  been  trained  to  order  and 
system,  and  they  had  become  part  of  her  being,  beyond 
the  power  of  drink  and  opium  and  prostitution  to  dis 
integrate  them  until  the  general  break-up  should  come. 
In  all  her  wanderings  every  man  or  woman  or  girl  she 
had  met  who  was  not  rapidly  breaking  up,  but  was 
offering  more  or  less  resistance  to  the  assaults  of  bad 
habits,  was  one  who  like  herself  had  acquired  in  child 
hood  strong  good  habits  to  oppose  the  bad  habits  and 
to  fight  them  with.  An  enemy  must  be  met  with  his 
own  weapons  or  stronger.  The  strongest  weapons  that 
can  be  given  a  human  animal  for  combating  the  de 
structive  forces  of  the  struggle  for  existence  are  not 
good  sentiments  or  good  principles  or  even  pious  or 
moral  practices — for,  bad  habits  can  make  short  work 
of  all  these — but  are  good  habits  in  the  practical,  ma 
terial  matters  of  life.  They  operate  automatically 
every  day;  they  apply  to  all  the  multitude  of  small, 
semi-unconscious  actions  of  the  daily  routine.  They 
preserve  the  morale.  And  not  morality  but  morals  is 
the  warp  of  character — the  part  which,  once  destroyed 
or  even  frayed,  cannot  be  restored. 

Susan,  unconsciously  and  tenaciously  practicing  her 

194 


SUSAN  LENOX 


early  training  in  order  and  system  whenever  she  could 
and  wherever  she  could,  had  an  enormous  advantage 
over  the  mass  of  the  girls,  both  respectable  and  fast. 
And  while  their  evidence  was  always  toward  "going  to 
pieces"  her  tendency  was  always  to  repair  and  to  put 
off  the  break-up. 

One  June  evening  she  was  looking  through  the  better 
class  of  dance  halls  and  drinking  resorts  for  Clara,  to 
get  her  to  go  up  to  Gussie's  for  a  smoke.  She  opened 
a  door  she  had  never  happened  to  enter  before — a  dingy 
door  with  the  glass  frosted.  Just  inside  there  was  a 
fetid  little  bar;  view  of  the  rest  of  the  room  was  cut 
off  by  a  screen  from  behind  which  came  the  sound  of 
a  tuneless  old  piano.  She  knew  Clara  would  not  be  in 
such  a  den,  but  out  of  curiosity  she  glanced  round  the 
screen.  She  was  seeing  a  low-ceilinged  room,  the  walls 
almost  dripping  with  the  dirt  of  many  and  many  a 
hard  year.  In  a  corner  was  the  piano,  battered,  about 
to  fall  to  pieces,  its  ancient  and  horrid  voice  cracked 
by  the  liquor  which  had  been  poured  into  it  by  facetious 
drunkards.  At  the  keyboard  sat  an  old  hunchback, 
broken-jawed,  dressed  in  slimy  rags.  His  filthy  fingers 
were  pounding  out  a  waltz. 

Susan  stood  rooted  to  the  threshold  of  that  scene. 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  her  throat  contracting 
in  a  fit  of  nausea.  She  grew  cold  all  over;  her  teeth 
chattered.  She  tried  in  vain  to  tear  her  gaze  from  the 
spectacle ;  some  invisible  power  seemed  to  be  holding 
her  head  in  a  vise,  thrusting  her  struggling  eyelids 
violently  open. 

There  were  several  men,  dead  drunk,  asleep  in  old 
wooden  chairs  against  the  wall.  One  of  these  men  was 
so  near  her  that  she  could  have  touched  him.  His 

195 


SUSAN  LENOX 


clothing  was  such  an  assortment  of  rags  slimy  and 
greasy  as  one  sometimes  sees  upon  the  top  of  a  filled 
garbage  barrel  to  add  its  horrors  of  odor  of  long  un 
washed  humanity  to  the  stenches  from  vegetable  decay. 
His  wreck  of  a  hard  hat  had  fallen  from  his  head  as  it 
dropped  forward  in  drunken  sleep.  Something  in  the 
shape  of  the  head  made  her  concentrate  upon  this  man. 
She  gave  a  sharp  cry,  stretched  out  her  hand,  touched 
the  man's  shoulder. 

"Rod!"  she  cried.     "Rod!" 

The  head  slowly  lifted,  and  the  bleary,  blowsy  wreck 
of  Roderick  Spenser's  handsome  face  was  turned  stupid 
ly  toward  her.  Into  his  gray  eyes  slowly  came  a  gleam 
of  recognition.  Then  she  saw  the  red  of  shame  burst 
into  his  hollow  cheeks,  and  the  head  quickly  drooped. 

She  shook  him.     "Rod!     It's  you!" 

"Get  the  hell  out,"  he  mumbled.     "I  want  to  sleep." 

"You  know  me,"  she  said.  "I  see  the  color  in  your 
face.  Oh,  Rod — you  needn't  be  ashamed  before  me.'9 

She  felt  him  quiver  under  her  fingers  pressing  upon 
his  shoulder.  But  he  pretended  to  snore. 

"Rod,"  she  pleaded,  "I  want  you  to  come  along  with 
me.  I  can't  do  you  any  harm  now." 

The  hunchback  had  stopped  playing.  The  old 
women  were  crowding  round  Spenser  and  her,  were 
peering  at  them,  with  eyes  eager  and  ears  a-cock  for 
romance — for  nowhere  on  this  earth  do  the  stars  shine 
so  sweetly  as  down  between  the  precipices  of  shame  to 
the  black  floor  of  the  slum's  abyss.  Spenser,  stooped 
and  shaking,  rose  abruptly,  thrust  Susan  aside  with  a 
sweep  of  the  arm  that  made  her  reel,  bolted  into  the 
street.  She  recovered  her  balance  and  amid  hoarse 
croakings  of  "That's  right,  honey!  Don't  give  him 
up!"  followed  the  shambling,  swaying  figure.  He  was 

196 


SUSAN  LENOX 


too  utterly  drunk  to  go  far ;  soon  down  he  sank,  a  heap 
of  rags  and  filth,  against  a  stoop. 

She  bent  over  him,  saw  he  was  beyond  rousing, 
straightened  and  looked  about  her.  Two  honest  look 
ing  young  Jews  stopped.  "Won't  you  help  me  get  him 
home?"  she  said  to  them. 

"Sure!"  replied  they  in  chorus.  And,  with  no  out 
ward  sign  of  the  disgust  they  must  have  felt  at  the 
contact,  they  lifted  up  the  sot,  in  such  fantastic  con 
trast  to  Susan's  clean  and  even  stylish  appearance,  and 
bore  him  along,  trying  to  make  him  seem  less  the  help 
less  whiskey-soaked  dead  weight.  They  dragged  him 
up  the  two  flights  of  stairs  and,  as  she  pushed  back 
the  door,  deposited  him  on  the  floor.  She  assured  them 
they  could  do  nothing  more,  thanked  them,  and  they 
departed.  Clara  appeared  in  her  doorway. 

"Lorna!"  she  cried.  "What  have  you  got  there? 
How'dit  get  in?" 

Clara,  looking  at  Spenser's  face  now,  saw  those  signs 
which  not  the  hardest  of  the  world's  hard  uses  can  cut 
or  tear  away.  "Oh !"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  sympathy. 
"He  is  down,  isn't  he?  But  he'll  pull  round  all  right." 

She  went  into  her  room  to  take  off  her  street  clothes 
and  to  get  herself  into  garments  as  suitable  as  she  pos 
sessed  for  one  of  those  noisome  tasks  that  are  done  a 
dozen  times  a  day  by  the  bath  nurses  in  the  receiving 
department  of  a  charity  hospital.  When  she  returned, 
Susan  too  was  in  her  chemise  and  ready  to  begin  the 
search  for  the  man,  if  man  there  was  left  deep  buried 
in  that  muck. 

In  a  short  time  they  had  cleansed  him  thoroughly. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Clara. 

"A  man  I  used  tc  know,"  said  Susan. 

"What're  you  going  to  do  with  him?" 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Susan. 

She  was  not  a  little  uneasy  at  the  thought  of  his 
awakening.  Would  he  despise  her  more  than  ever  now 
— fly  from  her  back  to  his  filth?  Would  he  let  her  try 
to  help  him?  And  she  looked  at  the  face  which  had 
been,  in  that  other  life  so  long,  long  age,  dearer  to  her 
than  any  face  her  eyes  had  ever  rested  upon;  a  sob 
started  deep  down  within  her,  found  its  slow  and  pain 
ful  way  upward,  shaking  her  whole  body  and  coming 
from  between  her  clenched  teeth  in  a  groan.  She  forgot 
all  she  had  suffered  from  Rod — forgot  the  truth  about 
him  which  she  had  slowly  puzzled  out  after  she  left  him 
and  as  experience  enabled  her  to  understand  actions 
she  had  not  understood  at  the  time.  She  forgot  it  all. 
That  past — that  far,  dear,  dead  past!  Again  she  was 
a  simple,  innocent  girl  upon  the  high  rock,  eating  that 
wonderful  dinner.  Again  the  evening  light  faded,  stars 
and  moon  came  out,  and  she  felt  the  first  sweet  stirring 
of  love  for  him.  She  could  hear  his  voice,  the  light, 
clear,  entrancing  melody  of  the  Duke's  song — 

La  Donna  e  mobile 
Qua  penna  al  vento — 

She  burst  into  tears — tears  that  drenched  her  soul 
as  the  rain  drenches  the  blasted  desert  and  makes  the 
things  that  could  live  in  beauty  stir  deep  in  its  bosom. 
And  Clara,  sobbing  in  sympathy,  kissed  her  and  stole 
away,  softly  closing  the  door.  "If  a  man  die,  shall  he 
live  again?"  asked  the  old  Arabian  philosopher.  If  a 
woman  die,  shall  she  live  again?  .  .  .  Shall  not  that 
which  dies  in  weakness  live  again  in  strength?  .  .  . 
Looking  at  him,  as  he  lay  there  sleeping  so  quietly,  her 
being  surged  with  the  heaving  of  high  longings  and 

198 


SUSAN  LENOX 


hopes.  If  they  could  only  live  again !  Here  they  were, 
together,  at  the  lowest  depth,  at  the  rock  bottom  of 
life.  If  they  could  build  on  that  rock,  build  upon  the 
very  foundation  of  the  world,  then  would  they  indeed 
build  in  strength!  Then,  nothing  could  destroy — 
nothing !  .  .  .If  they  could  live  again !  If  they  could 
build! 

She  had  something  to  live  for — something  to  fight 
for.  Into  her  eyes  came  a  new  light ;  into  her  soul  came 
peace  and  strength.  Something  to  live  for — someone 
to  redeem. 


XI 

SHE  fell  asleep,  her  head  resting  upon  her  hand, 
her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  She  awoke 
with  a  shiver;  she  opened  her  eyes  to  find  him 
gazing  at  her.  The  eyes  of  both  shifted  instantly. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  some  whiskey?"  she  asked. 

"Thanks,"  replied  he,  and  his  unchanged  voice  re 
minded  her  vividly  of  his  old  self,  obscured  by  the  beard 
and  by  the  dissipated  look. 

She  took  the  bottle  from  its  concealment  in  the  locked 
washstand  drawer,  poured  him  out  a  large  drink.  When 
she  came  back  where  he  could  see  the  whiskey  in  the 
glass,  his  eyes  glistened  and  he  raised  himself  first  on 
his  elbow,  then  to  a  sitting  position.  His  shaking  hand 
reached  out  eagerly  and  his  expectant  lips  quivered. 
He  gulped  the  whiskey  down. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  gazing  longingly  at  the  bottle 
as  he  held  the  empty  glass  toward  her. 

"More?" 

"I  would  like  a  little  more,"  said  he  gratefully. 

Again  she  poured  him  a  large  drink,  and  again  he 
gulped  it  down.  "That's  strong  stuff,"  said  he.  "But 
then  they  sell  strong  stuff  in  this  part  of  town.  The 
other  kind  tastes  weak  to  me  now." 

He  dropped  back  against  the  pillows.  She  poured 
herself  a  drink.  Halfway  to  her  lips  the  glass  halted. 
"I've  got  to  stop  that,"  thought  she,  "if  I'm  going  to 
do  anything  for  him  or  for  myself."  And  she  poured 
the  whiskey  back  and  put  the  bottle  away.  The  whole 
incident  took  less  than  five  seconds.  It  did  not  occur 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


that  she  was  essaying  and  achieving  the  heroic,  that 
she  had  in  that  instant  revealed  her  right  to  her  dreaia 
of  a  career  high  above  the  common  lot. 

"Don't  you  drink?"  said  he. 

"I've  decided  to  cut  it  out,"  replied  she  carelessly. 
"There's  nothing  in  it." 

"I  couldn't  live  without  it — and  wouldn't." 

"It  is  a  comfort  when  one's  on  the  way  down,"  said 
she.  "But  I'm  going  to  try  the  other  direction — for  a 
change." 

She  held  a  box  of  cigarettes  toward  him.  He  took 
one,  then  she;  she  held  the  lighted  match  for  him,  lit 
her  own  cigarette,  let  the  flame  of  the  match  burn  on, 
she  absently  watching  it. 

"Look  out!    You'll  burn  yourself!"  cried  he. 

She  started,  threw  the  match  into  the  slop  jar. 
"How  do  you  feel?"  inquired  she. 

"Like  the  devil,"  he  answered.  "But  then  I  haven't 
known  what  it  was  to  feel  any  other  way  for  several 
months — except  when  I  couldn't  feel  at  all."  A  long 
silence,  both  smoking,  he  thinking,  she  furtively  watch 
ing  him.  "You  haven't  changed  so  much,"  he  finally 
said.  "At  least,  not  on  the  outside." 

"More  on  the  outside  than  on  the  inside,"  said  she. 
"The  inside  doesn't  change  much.  There  I'm  almost  as 
I  was  that  day  on  the  big  rock.  And  I  guess  you  are, 
too — aren't  you?" 

"The  devil  I  am !    I've  grown  hard  and  bitter." 

"That's  all  outside,"  declared  she.  "That's  the  shell 
— like  the  scab  that  stays  over  the  sore  spot  till  it 
heals." 

"Sore  spot?  I'm  nothing  but  sore  spots.  I've  been 
treated  like  a  dog." 

And  he  proceeded  to  talk  about  the  only  subject  that 


SUSAN  LENOX 


interested  him — himself.  He  spoke  in  a  defensive  way, 
as  if  replying  to  something  she  had  said  or  thought. 
"I've  not  got  down  in  the  world  without  damn  good 
excuse.  I  wrote  several  plays,  and  they  were  tried  out 
of  town.  But  we  never  could  get  into  New  York.  I 
think  Brent  was  jealous  of  me,  and  his  influence  kept 
me  from  a  hearing.  I  know  it  sounds  conceited,  but 
I'm  sure  I'm  right." 

"Brent?"  said  she,  in  a  queer  voice.  "Oh,  I  think 
you  must  be  mistaken.  He  doesn't  look  like  a  man  who 
could  do  petty  mean  things.  No,  I'm  sure  he's  not 
petty." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  cried  Spenser,  in  an  irritated 
tone. 

"No.  But — someone  pointed  him  out  to  me  once — a 
long  time  ago — one  night  in  the  Martin.  And  then — 
you'll  remember — there  used  to  be  a  great  deal  of  talk 
about  him  when  we  lived  in  Forty-third  Street.  You 
admired  him  tremendously." 

"Well,  he's  responsible,"  said  Spenser,  sullenly. 
"The  men  on  top  are  always  trampling  down  those 
who  are  trying  to  climb  up.  He  had  it  in  for  me. 
One  of  my  friends  who  thought  he  was  a  decent  chap 
gave  him  my  best  play  to  read.  He  returned  it  with 
some  phrases  about  its  showing  talent — one  of  those 
phrases  that  don't  mean  a  damn  thing.  And  a  few 
weeks  ago — "  Spenser  raised  himself  excitedly — 
"the  thieving  hound  produced  a  play  that  was  a  clean 
steal  from  mine.  I'd  be  laughed  at  if  I  protested  or 
sued.  But  I  know,  curse  him !" 

He  fell  back  shaking  so  violently  that  his  cigarette 
dropped  to  the  sheet.  Susan  picked  it  up,  handed  it 
to  him.  He  eyed  her  with  angry  suspicion.  "You  don't 
believe  me,  do  you?"  he  demanded. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied  she.  "Any 
how,  what  does  it  matter?  The  man  I  met  on  that 
show  boat — the  Mr.  Burlingham  I've  often  talked  about 
— he  used  to  say  that  the  dog  that  stopped  to  lick  his 
scratches  never  caught  up  with  the  prey." 

He  flung  himself  angrily  in  the  bed.  "You  never  did 
have  any  heart — any  sympathy.  But  who  has?  Even 
Drumley  went  back  on  me — let  'em  put  a  roast  of  my 
last  play  in  the  Herald — a  telegraphed  roast  from  New 
Haven — said  it  was  a  dead  failure.  And  who  wrote  it? 
Why,  some  newspaper  correspondent  in  the  pay  of  the 
Syndicate — and  that  means  Brent.  And  of  course  it 
was  a  dead  failure.  So — I  gave  up — and  here  I  am.  .  .  . 
"Give  me  my  clothes,"  he  ordered,  waving  his  fists  in 
a  fierce,  feeble  gesture. 

"They  were  torn  all  to  pieces.  I  threw  them  away. 
I'll  get  you  some  more  in  the  morning." 

He  dropped  back  again,  a  scowl  upon  his  face.  "I've 
got  no  money — not  a  damn  cent.  I  did  half  a  day's 
work  on  the  docks  and  made  enough  to  quiet  me  last 
night."  He  raised  himself.  "I  can  work  again.  Give 
me  my  clothes !" 

"They're  gone,"  said  Susan.  "They  were  completely 
used  up." 

This  brought  back  apparently  anything  but  dim 
memory  of  what  his  plight  had  been.  "How'd  I  happen 
to  get  so  clean?" 

"Clara  and  I  washed  you  off  a  little.  You  had  fallen 
down." 

He  lay  silent  a  few  minutes,  then  said  in  a  hesitating, 
ashamed  tone,  "My  troubles  have  made  me  a  boor.  I 
beg  your  pardon.  You've  been  tremendously  kind  to 
me." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  much.     Don't  you  feel  sleepy?" 

203 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Not  a  bit."  He  dragged  himself  from  the  bed. 
"But  you  do.  I  must  go." 

She  laughed  in  the  friendliest  way.  "You  can't. 
You  haven't  any  clothes." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  and  coughed  vio 
lently,  she  holding  his  head  and  supporting  his  emaci 
ated  shoulders.  After  several  minutes  of  coughing  and 
gagging,  gasping  and  groaning  and  spitting,  he  was 
relieved  by  the  spasm  and  lay  down  again.  When  he 
got  his  breath,  he  said: — with  rest  between  words — "I'd 
ask  you  to  send  for  the  ambulance,  but  if  the  doctors 
catch  me,  they'll  lock  me  away.  I've  got  consumption. 
Oh,  I'll  soon  be  out  of  it." 

Susan  sat  silent.  She  did  not  dare  look  at  him  lest 
he  should  see  the  pity  and  horror  in  her  eyes. 

"They'll  find  a  cure  for  it,"  pursued  he.  "But  not 
till  the  day  after  I'm  gone.  That  is  the  way  my  luck 
runs.  Still,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  care  to  stay — and 
I  don't!  Have  you  any  more  of  that  whiskey?" 

Susan  brought  out  the  bottle  again,  gave  him  the 
last  of  the  whiskey — a  large  drink.  He  sat  up,  sipping 
it  to  make  it  last.  He  noted  the  long  row  of  books  on 
the  shelf  fastened  along  the  wall  beside  the  bed,  the 
books  and  magazines  on  the  table.  Said  he : 

"As  fond  of  reading  as  ever,  I  see  ?" 

"Fonder,"  said  she.     "I  takes  me  out   of  myself." 

"I  suppose  you  read  the  sort  of  stuff  you  really  like, 
now — not  the  things  you  used  to  read  to  make  old 
Drumley  think  you  were  cultured  and  intellectual." 

"No — the  same  sort,"  replied  she,  unruffled  by  his 
contemptuous,  unjust  fling.  "Trash  bores  me." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  I  guess  you  did  have  pretty 
good  taste  in  books." 

But  he  was  interested  in  himself,  like  all  invalids ; 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and,  like  them,  he  fancied  his  own  intense  interest  could 
not  but  be  shared  by  everyone.  He  talked  on  and  on 
of  himself,  after  the  manner  of  failures — told  of  his 
wrongs,  of  how  friends  had  betrayed  him,  of  the  jeal 
ousies  and  enmities  his  talents  had  provoked.  Susan 
was  used  to  these  hard-luck  stories,  was  used  to  analyz 
ing  them.  With  the  aid  of  what  she  had  worked  out  as 
to  his  character  after  she  left  him,  she  had  no  difficulty 
in  seeing  that  he  was  deceiving  himself,  was  excusing 
himself.  But  after  all  she  had  lived  through,  after  all 
she  had  discovered  about  human  frailty,  especially  in 
herself,  she  was  not  able  to  criticize,  much  less  con 
demn,  anybody.  Her  doubts  merely  set  her  to  wonder 
ing  whether  he  might  not  also  be  self-deceived  as  to  his 
disease. 

"Why  do  you  think  you've  got  consumption?"  asked 
she. 

"I  was  examined  at  the  free  dispensary  up  in  Second 
Avenue  the  other  day.  I've  suspected  what  was  the 
matter  for  several  months.  They  told  me  I  was  right." 

"But  the  doctors  are  always  making  mistakes.  I'd 
not  give  up  if  I  were  you." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  would  if  I  had  anything  to  live 
for?" 

"I  was  thinking  about  that  a  while  ago — while  you 
were  asleep." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  in.     That's  a  cinch." 

"So  am  I,"  said  she.  "And  as  we've  nothing  to  lose 
and  no  hope,  why,  trying  to  do  something  won't  make 
us  any  worse  off.  .  .  .  We've  both  struck  the  bottom. 
We  can't  go  any  lower."  She  leaned  forward  and,  with 
her  earnest  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  said,  "Rod — why  not 
try— together?" 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

205 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I'm  afraid  I  can't  be  of  much  use  to  you,"  she  went 
on.  "But  you  can  help  me.  And  helping  me  will  make 
you  help  yourself.  I  can't  get  up  alone.  I've  tried. 
No  doubt  it's  my  fault.  I  guess  I'm  one  of  those 
women  that  aren't  hard  enough  or  self-confident  enough 
to  do  what's  necessary  unless  I've  got  some  man  to 
make  me  do  it.  Perhaps  I'd  get  the — the  strength  or 
whatever  it  is,  when  I  was  much  older.  But  by  that 
time — in  my  case — I  guess  it'd  be  too  late.  Won't 
you  help  me,  Rod?" 

He  turned  his  head  away,  without  opening  his  eyes. 

"You've  helped  me  many  times — beginning  with  the 
first  day  we  met." 

"Don't,"  he  said.  "I  went  back  on  you.  I  did  sprain 
my  ankle,  but  I  could  have  come." 

"That  wasn't  anything,"  replied  she.  "You  had 
already  done  a  thousand  times  more  than  you  needed 
to  do." 

His  hand  wandered  along  the  cover  in  her  direction. 
She  touched  it.  Their  hands  clasped. 

"I  lied  about  where  I  got  the  money  yesterday.  I 
didn't  work.  I  begged.  Three  of  us — from  the  saloon 
they  call  the  Owl's  Chute — two  Yale  men — one  of  them 
had  been  a  judge — and  I.  We've  been  begging  for  a 
week.  We  were  going  out  on  the  road  in  a  few  days — 
to  rob.  Then — I  saw  you — in  that  old  women's  dance 
hall — the  Venusberg,  they  call  it." 

"You've  come  down  here  for  me,  Rod.  You'll  take 
me  back?  You'll  save  me  from  the  Venusberg?" 

"I  couldn't  save  anybody.  Susie,  at  bottom  I'm  N.  G. 
I  always  was — and  I  knew  it.  Weak — vain.  But  you  ! 
If  you  hadn't  been  a  woman — and  such  a  sweet,  consid 
erate  one — you'd  have  never  got  down  here." 

"Such  a  fool,"  corrected  Susan.    "But,  once  I  get  up, 

206 


SUSAN  LENOX 


I'll  not  be  so  again.     I'll  fight  under  the  rules,  instead 
of  acting  in  the  silly  way  they  teach  us  as  children." 

"Don't  say  those  hard  things,  Susie !" 

"Aren't  they  true?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can't'  bear  to  hear  them  from  a  woman. 
...  I  told  you  that  you  hadn't  changed.  But  after 
I'd  looked  at  you  a  while  I  saw  that  you  have.  You've 
got  a  terrible  look  in  your  eyes — wonderful  and  terrible. 
You  had  something  of  that  look  as  a  child — the  first 
time  I  saw  you." 

"The  day  after  my  marriage,"  said  the  girl,  turning 
her  face  away. 

"It  was  there  then,"  he  went  on.  "But  now — it's — 
it's  heartbreaking,  Susie — when  your  face  is  in  repose." 

"I've  gone  through  a  fire  that  has  burned  up  every 
bit  of  me  that  can  burn,"  said  she.  "I've  been  wonder 
ing  if  what's  left  isn't  strong  enough  to  do  something 
with.  I  believe  so — if  you'll  help  me." 

"Help  you?  I — help  anybody?  Don't  mock  me, 
Susie." 

"I  don't  know  about  anybody  else,"  said  she  sweetly 
and  gently,  "but  I  do  know  about  me." 

"No  use — too  late.  I've  lost  my  nerve."  He  began 
to  sob.  "It's  because  I'm  unstrung,"  explained  he. 
"Don't  think  I'm  a  poor  contemptible  fool  of  a  whiner. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  am  a  whiner!  Susie,  I  ought  to  have  been 
the  woman  and  you  the  man.  Weak — weak — weak!" 

She  turned  the  gas  low,  bent  over  him,  kissed  his 
brow,  caressed  him.  "Let's  do  the  best  we  can,"  she 
murmured. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her.  "I  wonder  if  there  is 
any  hope,"  he  said.  "No — there  couldn't  be." 

"Let's  not  hope,"  pleaded  she.  "Let's  just  do  the 
best  we  can." 

207 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"What— for  instance?" 

"You  know  the  theater  people.  You  might  write  a 
little  play — a  sketch — and  you  and  I  could  act  it  in 
one  of  the  ten-cent  houses." 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea!"  exclaimed  he.  "A  little 
comedy — about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes."  And  he 
cast  about  for  a  plot,  found  the  beginnings  of  one — 
the  ancient  but  ever  acceptable  commonplace  of  a 
jealous  quarrel  between  two  lovers — "I'll  lay  the  scene 
in  Fifth  Avenue — there's  nothing  low  life  likes  so  much 
as  high  life."  He  sketched,  she  suggested.  They 
planned  until  broad  day,  then  fell  asleep,  she  half  sit 
ting  up,  his  head  pillowed  upon  her  lap. 

She  was  awakened  by  a  sense  of  a  parching  and 
suffocating  heat.  She  started  up  with  the  idea  of  fire 
in  her  drowsy  mind.  But  a  glance  at  him  revealed  the 
real  cause.  His  face  was  fiery  red,  and  from  his  lips 
came  rambling  sentences,  muttered,  whispered,  that  in 
dicated  the  delirium  of  a  high  fever.  She  had  first  seen 
it  when  she  and  the  night  porter  broke  into  Burling- 
ham's  room  in  the  Walnut  Street  House,  in  Cincinnati. 
She  had  seen  it  many  a  time  since ;  for,  while  she  herself 
had  never  been  ill,  she  had  been  surrounded  by  illness 
all  the  time,  and  the  commonest  form  of  it  was  one  of 
these  fevers,  outraged  nature's  frenzied  rise  against  the 
ever  denser  swarms  of  enemies  from  without  which  the 
slums  sent  to  attack  her.  Susan  ran  across  the  hall 
and  roused  Clara,  who  would  watch  while  she  went  for 
a  doctor.  "You'd  better  get  Einstein  in  Grand  Street," 
Clara  advised. 

"Why  not  Sacci?"  asked  Susan. 

"Our  doctor  doesn't  know  anything  but  the  one  thing 
— and  he  doesn't  like  to  take  other  kinds  of  cases. 
No,  get  Einstein.  .  .  .  You  know,  he's  like  all  of 

208 


SUSAN  LENOX 


them — he   won't   come   unless    you   pay    in    advance." 

"How  much?"  asked  Susan. 

"Three  dollars.     I'll  lend  you  if " 

"No — I've  got  it."  She  had  eleven  dollars  and  sixty 
cents  in  the  world. 

Einstein  pronounced  it  a  case  of  typhoid.  "You 
must  get  him  to  the  hospital  at  once." 

Susan  and  Clara  looked  at  each  other  in  terror.  To 
them,  as  to  the  masses  everywhere,  the  hospital  meant 
almost  certain  death;  for  they  assumed — and  they  had 
heard  again  and  again  accusations  which  warranted  it 
— that  the  public  hospital  doctors  and  nurses  treated 
their  patients  with  neglect  always,  with  downright  in 
humanity  often.  Not  a  day  passed  without  their  hear 
ing  some  story  of  hospital  outrage  upon  poverty,  with 
out  their  seeing  someone — usually  some  child — who  was 
paying  a  heavy  penalty  for  having  been  in  the  charity 
wards. 

Einstein  understood  their  expression.  "Nonsense!" 
said  he  gruffly.  "You  girls  look  too  sensible  to  believe 
those  silly  lies." 

Susan  looked  at  him  steadily.  His  eyes  shifted. 
"Of  course,  the  pay  service  is  better,"  said  he  in  a 
strikingly  different  tone. 

"How  much  would  it  be  at  a  pay  hospital?"  asked 
Susan. 

"Twenty-five  a  week  including  my  services,"  said 
Doctor  Einstein.  "But  you  can't  afford  that." 

"Will  he  get  the  best  treatment  for  that?" 

"The  very  best.  As  good  as  if  he  were  Rockefeller 
or  the  big  chap  uptown." 

"In  advance,  I  suppose?" 

"Would  we  ever  get  our  money  out  of  people  if  we 

209 


SUSAN  LENOX 


didn't  get  it  in  advance?  We've  got  to  live  just  the 
same  as  any  other  class." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  girl.  "I  don't  blame  you. 
I  don't  blame  anybody  for  anything."  She  said  to 
Clara,  "Can  you  lend  me  twenty?" 

"Sure.  Come  in  and  get  it."  When  she  and  Susan 
were  in  the  hall  beyond  Einstein's  hearing,  she  went  on : 
"I've  got  the  twenty  and  you're  welcome  to  it.  But — 
Lorna — hadn't  you  better " 

"In  the  same  sort  of  a  case,  what'd  you  do?"  inter 
rupted  Susan. 

Clara  laughed.  "Oh — of  course."  And  she  gave 
Susan  a  roll  of  much  soiled  bills — a  five,  the  rest  ones 
and  twos. 

"I  can  get  the  ambulance  to  take  him  free,"  said 
Einstein.  "That'll  save  you  five  for  a  carriage." 

She  accepted  this  offer.  And  when  the  ambulance 
went,  with  Spenser  burning  and  raving  in  the  tightly 
wrapped  blankets,  Susan  followed  in  a  street  car  to 
see  with  her  own  eyes  that  he  was  properly  installed. 
It  was  arranged  that  she  could  visit  him  at  any  hour 
and  stay  as  long  as  she  liked. 

She  returned  to  the  tenement,  to  find  the  sentiment 
of  the  entire  neighborhood  changed  toward  her.  Not 
loss  of  money,  not  loss  of  work,  not  dispossession  nor 
fire  nor  death  is  the  supreme  calamity  among  the  poor, 
but  sickness.  It  is  their  most  frequent  visitor — sick 
ness  in  all  its  many  frightful  forms — rheumatism  and 
consumption,  cancer  and  typhoid  and  the  rest  of  the 
monsters.  Yet  never  do  the  poor  grow  accustomed  or 
hardened.  And  at  the  sight  of  the  ambulance  the 
neighborhood  had  been  instantly  stirred.  When  the 
reason  for  its  coming  got  about,  Susan  became  the 
object  of  universal  sympathy  and  respect.  She  was 

210 


SUSAN  LENOX 


not  sending  her  friend  to  be  neglected  and  killed  at  a 
charity  hospital;  she  was  paying  twenty-five  a  week 
that  he  might  have  a  chance  for  life — twenty-five  dol 
lars  a  week! 

Rafferty,  who  kept  the  saloon  at  the  corner  and  was 
chief  lieutenant  to  O'Frayne,  the  District  Leader,  sent 
for  her  and  handed  her  a  twenty.  "That  may  help 
some,"  said  he. 

Susan  hesitated — gave  it  back.  Thank  you,"  said  she, 
"and  perhaps  later  I'll  have  to  get  it  from  you.  But  I 
don't  want  to  get  into  debt.  I  already  owe  twenty." 

"This  ain't  debt,"  explained  Rafferty.  "Take  it  and 
forget  it." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  said  the  girl.  "But  maybe 
you'll  lend  it  to  me,  if  I  need  it  in  a  week  or  so?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  puzzled  saloon  man — liquor  store 
man,  he  preferred  to  be  called,  or  politician.  "Any 
amount  you  want." 

As  she  went  away  he  looked  after  her,  saying  to  his 
barkeeper:  "What  do  you  think  of  that,  Terry?  I 
offered  her  a  twenty  and  she  sidestepped." 

"She's  a  nice  girl,"  said  Rafferty,  sauntering  away. 
He  was  a  broad,  tolerant  and  good-humored  man ;  he 
made  allowances  for  an  employee  whose  brother  was  in 
for  murder. 

Susan  had  little  time  to  spend  at  the  hospital.  She 
must  now  earn  fifty  dollars  a  week — nearly  double  the 
amount  she  had  been  averaging.  She  must  pay  the 
twenty-five  dollars  for  Spenser,  the  ten  dollars  for  her 
lodgings.  Then  there  was  the  seven  dollars  which 
must  be  handed  to  the  police  captain's  "wardman"  in 
the  darkness  of  some  entry  every  Thursday  night.  She 
had  been  paying  the  patrolman  three  dollars  a  week  to 
keep  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  two  dollars  to  the 


SUSAN  LENOX 


janitor's  wife;  she  might  risk  cutting  out  these  items 
for  the  time,  as  both  janitor's  wife  and  policeman  were 
sympathetic.  But  on  the  closest  figuring,  fifty  a  week 
would  barely  meet  her  absolute  necessities — would  give 
her  but  seven  a  week  for  food  and  other  expenses  and 
nothing  toward  repaying  Clara. 

Fifty  dollars  a  week!  She  might  have  a  better 
chance  to  make  it  could  she  go  back  to  the  Broadway- 
Fifth  Avenue  district.  But  however  vague  other  im 
pressions  from  the  life  about  her  might  have  been,  there 
had  been  branded  into  her  a  deep  and  terrible  fear  of 
the  police — an  omnipotence  as  cruel  as  destiny  itself — 
indeed,  the  visible  form  of  that  sinister  god  at  present. 
Once  in  the  pariah  class,  once  with  a  "police  record," 
and  a  man  or  woman  would  have  to  scale  the  steeps  of 
respectability  up  to  a  far  loftier  height  than  Susan 
ever  dreamed  of  again  reaching,  before  that  malign  and 
relentless  power  would  abandon  its  tyranny.  She  did 
not  dare  risk  adventuring  a  part  of  town  where  she 
had  no  "pull"  and  where,  even  should  she  by  chance 
escape  arrest,  Freddie  Palmer  would  hear  of  her ;  would 
certainly  revenge  himself  by  having  her  arrested  and 
made  an  example  of.  In  the  Grand  Street  district  she 
must  stay,  and  she  must  "stop  the  nonsense"  and  "play 
the  game" — must  be  businesslike. 

She  went  to  see  the  "wardman,"  O'Ryan,  who  under 
the  guise  of  being  a  plains  clothes  man  or  detective, 
collected  and  turned  in  to  the  captain,  who  took  his 
"bit"  and  passed  up  the  rest,  all  the  money  levied  upon 
saloons,  dives,  procuresses,  dealers  in  unlawful  goods 
of  any  kind  from  opium  and  cocaine  to  girls  for  "hock 
shops." 

O'Ryan  was  a  huge  brute  of  a  man,  his  great 
hard  face  bearing  the  scars  of  battles  against  pistol, 


SUSAN  LENOX 


knife,  bludgeon  and  fist.  He  was  a  sour  and  savage 
brute,  hated  and  feared  by  everyone  for  his  tyrannies 
over  the  helpless  poor  and  the  helpless  outcast  class. 
He  had  primitive  masculine  notions  as  to  feminine  vir 
tue,  intact  despite  the  latter  day  general  disposition  to 
concede  toleration  and  even  a  certain  respectability  to 
prostitutes.  But  by  some  chance  which  she  and  the 
other  girls  did  not  understand  he  treated  Susan  with 
the  utmost  consideration,  made  the  gangs  appreciate 
that  if  they  annoyed  her  or  tried  to  drag  her  into  the 
net  of  tribute  in  which  they  had  enmeshed  most  of 
the  girls  worth  while,  he  would  regard  it  as  a  personal 
defiance  to  himself. 

Susan  waited  in  the  back  room  of  the  saloon  nearest 
O'Ryan's  lodgings  and  sent  a  boy  to  ask  him  to  come. 
The  boy  came  back  with  the  astonishing  message  that 
she  was  to  come  to  O'Ryan's  flat.  Susan  was  so  doubt 
ful  that  she  paused  to  ask  the  janitress  about  it. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  the  janitress.  "Since  his  wife 
died  three  years  ago  him  and  his  baby  lives  alone. 
There's  his  old  mother  but  she's  gone  out.  He's  always 
at  home  when  he  ain't  on  duty.  He  takes  care  of  the 
baby  himself,  though  it  howls  all  the  time  something 
awful." 

Susan  ascended,  found  the  big  policeman  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  trying  to  soothe  the  most  hideous  monstrosity 
she  had  ever  seen — a  misshapen,  hairy  animal  look 
ing  like  a  monkey,  like  a  rat,  like  a  half  dozen  repulsive 
animals,  and  not  at  all  like  a  human  being.  The  thing 
was  clawing  and  growling  and  grinding  its  teeth.  At 
sight  of  Susan  it  fixed  malevolent  eyes  on  her  and  began 
to  snap  its  teeth  at  her. 

"Don't  mind  him,"  said  O'Ryan.  "He's  only  acting 
up  queer." 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Susan  sat  not  daring  to  look  at  the  thing  lest  she 
should  show  her  aversion,  and  not  knowing  how  to  state 
her  business  when  the  thing  was  so  clamorous,  so  fiend 
ishly  uproariously.  After  a  time  O'Ryan  succeeded  in 
quieting  it.  He  seemed  to  think  some  explanation  was 
necessary.  He  began  abruptly,  his  gaze  tenderly  on  the 
awful  creature,  his  child,  lying  quiet  now  in  his  arms: 

"My  wife — she  died  some  time  ago — died  when  the 
baby  here  was  born." 

"You  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  with  it,"  said  Susan. 

"All  I  can  spare  from  my  job.  I'm  afraid  to  trust 
him  to  anybody,  he  being  kind  of  different.  Then,  too, 
I  like  to  take  care  of  him.  You  see,  it's  all  I've  got  to 
remember  her  by.  I'm  kind  o'  tryin'  to  do  what  she'd 
want  did."  His  lips  quivered.  He  looked  at  his  mon 
strous  child.  "Yes  I  like  settin'  here,  thinkin' — and 
takin'  care  of  him.' 

This  brute  of  a  slave  driver,  this  cruel  tyrant  over 
the  poor  and  the  helpless — yet,  thus  tender  and  gentle 
—thus  capable  of  the  enormous  sacrifice  of  a  great, 
pure  love ! 

" You've  got  a  way  of  lookin'  out  of  the  eyes  that's 
like  her,"  he  went  on — and  Susan  had  the  secret  of  his 
strange  forbearance  toward  her.  "I  suppose  you've 
come  about  being  let  off  on  the  assessment?" 

Already  he  knew  the  whole  story  of  Rod  and  the 
hospital.  "Yes — that's  why  I'm  bothering  you,"  said 
she. 

"You  needn't  pay  but  five-fifty.  I  can  only  let  you 
off  a  dollar  and  a  half — my  bit  and  the  captain's.  We 
pass  the  rest  on  up — and  we  don't  dare  let  you  off." 

"Oh,  I  can  make  the  money,"  Susan  said  hastily. 
"Thank  you,  Mr.  O'Ryan,  but  I  don't  want  to  get  any 
one  into  trouble." 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"We've  got  the  right  to  knock  off  one  dollar  and  a 
half,"  said  O'Ryan.  "But  if  we  let  you  off  the  other, 
the  word  would  get  up  to — to  wherever  the  graft  goes — 
and  they'd  send  down  along  the  line,  to  have  merry 
hell  raised  with  us.  The  whole  thing's  done  systematic, 
and  they  won't  take  no  excuses,  won't  allow  no  breaks 
in  the  system  nowhere.  You  can  see  for  yourself — 
it'd  go  to  smash  if  they  did." 

"Somebody  must  get  a  lot  of  money,"  said  Susan. 

"Oh,  it's  dribbled  out — and  as  you  go  higher  up,  I 
don't  suppose  them  that  gets  it  knows  where  it  comes 
from.  The  whole  world's  nothing  but  graft,  anyhow. 
Sorry  I  can't  let  you  off." 

The  thing  in  his  lap  had  recovered  strength  for  a 
fresh  fit  of  malevolence.  It  was  tearing  at  its  hairy, 
hideous  face  with  its  claws  and  was  howling  and  shriek 
ing,  the  big  father  gently  trying  to  soothe  it — for  her 
sake.  Susan  got  away  quickly.  She  halted  in  the 
deserted  hall  and  gave  way  to  a  spasm  of  dry  sobbing 
—an  overflow  of  all  the  emotions  that  had  been  accu 
mulating  within  her.  In  this  world  of  noxious  and  re 
pulsive  weeds,  what  sudden  startling  upshooting  of 
what  beautiful  flowers  !•  Flowers  where  you  would  ex 
pect  to  find  the  most  noisome  weeds  of  all,  and  vilest 
weeds  where  you  would  expect  to  find  flowers.  What  a 
world ! 

However- — the  fifty  a  week  must  be  got — and  she 
must  be  businesslike. 

Most  of  the  girls  who  took  to  the  streets  came  direct 
from  the  tenements  of  New  York,  of  the  foreign  cities 
or  of  the  factory  towns  of  New  England.  And  the 
world  over,  tenement  house  life  is  an  excellent  school 
for  the  life  of  the  streets.  It  prevents  modesty  from 
developing;  it  familiarizes  the  eye,  the  ear,  the  nerves, 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  all  that  is  brutal;  it  takes  away  from  a  girl  every 
feeling  that  might  act  as  a  restraining  influence  except 
fear — fear  of  maternity,  of  disease,  of  prison.  Thus, 
practically  all  the  other  girls  had  the  advantage  over 
Susan.  Soon  after  they  definitely  abandoned  respect 
ability  and  appeared  in  the  streets  frankly  members  of 
the  profession,  they  became  bold  and  rapacious.  They 
had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  their  business  was  as 
reputable  as  any  other,  more  reputable  than  many 
held  in  high  repute,  that  it  would  be  most  reputable  if 
it  paid  better  and  were  less  uncertain.  They  respected 
themselves  for  all  things,  talk  to  the  contrary  in  the 
search  for  the  sympathy  and  pity  most  human  beings 
crave.  They  despised  the  men  as  utterly  as  the  men 
despised  them.  They  bargained  as  shamelessly  as  the 
men.  Even  those  who  did  not  steal  still  felt  that  steal 
ing  was  justifiable;  for,  in  the  streets  the  sex  impulse 
shows  stripped  of  all  disguise,  shows  as  a  brutal  male 
appetite,  and  the  female  feels  that  her  yielding  to  it 
entitles  her  to  all  she  can  compel  and  cozen  and  crib. 
Susan  had  been  unfitted  for  her  profession — as  for  all 
active,  unsheltered  life — by  her  early  training.  The 
point  of  view  given  us  in  our  childhood  remains  our 
point  of  view  as  to  all  the  essentials  of  life  to  the  end. 
Reason,  experience,  the  influence  of  contact  with  many 
phases  of  the  world,  may  change  us  seemingly,  but  the 
under-instinct  remains  unchanged.  Thus,  Susan  had 
never  lost,  and  never  would  lose  her  original  repug 
nance;  not  even  drink  had  ever  given  her  the  courage 
to  approach  men  or  to  bargain  with  them.  Her  shame 
was  a  false  shame,  like  most  of  the  shame  in  the  world — 
a  lack  of  courage,  not  a  lack  of  desire — and,  however 
we  may  pretend,  there  can  be  no  virtue  in  abstinence 
merely  through  cowardice.  Still,  if  there  be  merit  in 

216 


SUSAN  LENOX 


shrinking,  even  when  the  crudest  necessities  were  goad 
ing,  that  merit  was  hers  in  full  measure.  As  a  matter 
of  reason  and  sense,  she  admitted  that  the  girls  who 
respected  themselves  and  practiced  their  profession 
like  merchants  of  other  kinds  were  right,  were  doing 
what  she  ought  to  do.  Anyhow,  it  was  absurd  to  prac 
tice  a  profession  half-heartedly.  To  play  your  game, 
whatever  it  might  be,  for  all  there  was  in  it — that  was 
the  obvious  first  principle  of  success.  Yet — she  re 
mained  laggard  and  squeamish. 

What  she  had  been  unable  to  do  for  herself,  to  save 
herself  from  squalor,  from  hunger,  from  cold,  she  was 
now  able  to  do  for  the  sake  of  another — to  help  the 
man  who  had  enabled  her  to  escape  from  that  marriage, 
more  hideous  than  anything  she  had  endured  since,  or 
ever  could  be  called  upon  to  endure — to  save  him  from 
certain  neglect  and  probable  death  in  the  "charity" 
hospital.  Not  by  merely  tolerating  the  not  too  impos 
sible  men  who  joined  her  without  sign  from  her,  and 
not  by  merely  accepting  what  they  gave,  could  fifty 
dollars  a  week  be  made.  She  must  dress  herself  in 
franker  avowal  of  her  profession,  must  look  as  ex 
pensive  as  her  limited  stock  of  clothing,  supplemented 
by  her  own  taste,  would  permit.  She  must  flirt,  must 
bargain,  must  ask  for  presents,  must  make  herself 
agreeable,  must  resort  to  the  crude  female  arts — which, 
however,  are  subtle  enough  to  convince  the  self-en 
chanted  male  even  in  face  of  the  discouraging  fact  of 
the  mercenary  arrangement.  She  must  crush  down  her 
repugnance,  must  be  active,  not  simply  passive — -must 
get  the  extra  dollars  by  stimulating  male  appetites, 
instead  of  simply  permitting  them  to  satisfy  them 
selves.  She  must  seem  rather  the  eager  mistress  than 
the  reluctant  and  impatient  wife. 

217 


SUSAN  LENOX 


And  she  did  abruptly  change  her  manner.  There 
was  in  her,  as  her  life  had  shown,  a  power  of  endurance, 
an  ability  to  sacrifice  herself  in  order  to  do  the  thing 
that  seemed  necessary,  and  to  do  it  without  shuffling 
or  whining.  Whatever  else  her  career  had  done  for  her, 
it  undoubtedly  had  strengthened  this  part  of  her  nature. 
And  now  the  result  of  her  training  showed.  With  her 
superior  intelligence  for  the  first  time  free  to  make  the 
best  of  her  opportunities,  she  abruptly  became  equal 
to  the  most  consummate  of  her  sisters  in  that  long  line 
of  her  sister-panders  to  male  appetites  which  extends 
from  the  bought  wife  or  mistress  or  fiancee  of  the  rich 
grandee  down  all  the  social  ranks  to  the  wife  or  street 
girl  cozening  for  a  tipsy  day-laborer's  earnings  on  a 
Saturday  night  and  the  work  girl  teasing  her  "steady 
company"  toward  matrimony  on  the  park  bench  or  in 
the  dark  entry  of  the  tenement. 

She  was  able  to  pay  Clara  back  in  less  than  ten  days. 
In  Spenser's  second  week  at  the  hospital  she  had  him 
moved  to  better  quarters  and  better  attendance  at  thirty 
dollars  a  week. 

And  when  Roderick  should  be  well,  and  the  sketch 
written — an  an  engagement  got — Ah,  then!  Life  in 
deed — life,  at  last !  Was  it  this  hope  that  gave  her  the 
strength  to  fight  down  and  conquer  the  craving  for 
opium?  Or  was  it  the  necessity  of  keeping  her  wits 
and  of  saving  every  cent?  Or  was  it  because  the 
opium  habit,  like  the  drink  habit,  like  every  other  habit, 
is  a  matter  of  a  temperament  far  more  than  it  is  a 
matter  of  an  appetite — and  that  she  had  the  appetite 
but  not  the  temperament?  No  doubt  this  had  its  part 
in  the  quick  and  complete  victory.  At  any  rate,  fight 
and  conquer  she  did.  The  strongest  interest  always 
wins.  She  had  an  interest  stronger  than  love  of  opium 

218 


SUSAN  LENOX 


— an  interest  that  substituted  itself  for  opium  and  for 
drink  and  supplanted  them.  Life  indeed — life,  at  last! 

In  his  third  week  Rod  began  to  round  toward  health. 
Einstein  observed  from  the  nurse's  charts  that  Susan's 
visits  were  having  an  unfavorably  exciting  effect.  He 
showed  her  the  readings  of  temperature  and  pulse, 
and  forbade  her  to  stay  longer  than  five  minutes  at 
each  of  her  two  daily  visits.  Also,  she  must  not  bring 
up  any  topic  beyond  the  sickroom  itself.  One  day 
Spenser  greeted  her  with,  "I'll  feel  better,  now  that  I've 
got  this  off  my  mind."  He  held  out  to  her  a  letter. 
"Take  that  to  George  Fitzalan.  He's  an  old  friend  of 
mine — one  I've  done  a  lot  for  and  never  asked  any 
favors  of.  He  may  be  able  to  give  you  something  fairly 
good,  right  away." 

Susan  glanced  penetratingly  at  him,  saw  he  had  been 
brooding  over  the  source  of  the  money  that  was  being 
spent  upon  him.  "Very  well,"  said  she,  "I'll  go  as 
soon  as  I  can." 

"Go  this  afternoon,"  said  he  with  an  invalid's  fret- 
fulness.  "And  when  you  come  this  evening  you  can 
tell  me  how  you  got  on." 

"Very  well.  This  afternoon.  But  you  know,  Rod, 
there's  not  a  ghost  of  a  chance." 

"I  tell  you  Fitzalan's  my  friend.  He's  got  some 
gratitude.  He'll  do  something." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  get  into  a  mood  where  you'll 
be  awfully  depressed  if  I  should  fail." 

"But  you'll  not  fail." 

It  was  evident  that  Spenser,  untaught  by  experience 
and  flattered  into  exaggerating  his  importance  by  the 
solicitude  and  deference  of  doctors  and  nurses  to  a  pay 
ing  invalid,  had  restored  to  favor  his  ancient  enemy — 
optimism,  the  certain  destroyer  of  any  man  who  does 

219 


SUSAN  LENOX 


not  shake  it  off.  She  went  away,  depressed  and  wor 
ried.  When  she  should  come  back  with  the  only  possible 
news,  what  would  be  the  effect  upon  him — and  he  still 
in  a  critical  stage?  As  the  afternoon  must  be  given  to 
business,  she  decided  to  go  straight  uptown,  hoping  to 
catch  Fitzalan  before  he  went  out  to  lunch.  And 
twenty  minutes  after  making  this  decision  she  was  sit 
ting  in  the  anteroom  of  a  suite  of  theatrical  offices  in 
the  Empire  Theater  building.  The  girl  in  attendance 
had,  as  usual,  all  the  airs  little  people  assume  when  they 
are  in  close,  if  menial,  relations  with  a  person  who, 
being  important  to  them,  therefore  fills  their  whole 
small  horizon.  She  deigned  to  take  in  Susan's  name 
and  the  letter.  Susan  seated  herself  at  the  long  table 
and  with  the  seeming  of  calmness  that  always  veiled 
her  in  her  hours  of  greatest  agitation,  turned  over  the 
pages  of  the  theatrical  journals  and  magazines  spread 
about  in  quantity. 

After  perhaps  ten  silent  and  uninterrupted  minutes 
a  man  hurried  in  from  the  outside  hall,  strode  toward 
the  frosted  glass  door  marked  "Private."  With  his 
hand  reaching  for  the  knob  he  halted,  made  an  im 
patient  gesture,  plumped  himself  down  at  the  long 
table — at  its  distant  opposite  end.  With  a  sweep  of 
the  arm  he  cleared  a  space  wherein  he  proceeded  to 
spread  papers  from  his  pocket  and  to  scribble  upon 
them  furiously.  When  Susan  happened  to  glance  at 
him,  his  head  was  bent  so  low  and  his  straw  hat  was 
tilted  so  far  forward  that  she  could  not  see  his  face. 
She  observed  that  he  was  dressed  attractively  in  an 
extremely  light  summer  suit  of  homespun;  his  hands 
were  large  and  strong  and  ruddy — the  hands  of  an 
artist,  in  good  health.  Her  glance  returned  to  the 
magazine.  After  a  few  minutes  she  looked  up.  She 

220 


SUSAN  LENOX 


was  startled  to  find  that  the  man  was  giving  her  a 
curious,  searching  inspection — and  that  he  was  Brent, 
the  playwright — the  same  fascinating  face,  keen,  cyni 
cal,  amused — the  same  seeing  eyes,  that,  in  the  Cafe 
Martin  long  ago,  had  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  being 
read  to  her  most  secret  thought.  She  dropped  her 
glance. 

His  voice  made  her  start.  "It's  been  a  long  time 
since  I've  seen  you,"  he  was  saying. 

She  looked  up,  not  believing  it  possible  he  was  ad 
dressing  her.  But  his  gaze  was  upon  her.  Thus,  she 
had  not  been  mistaken  in  thinking  she  had  seen  recog 
nition  in  his  eyes.  "Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"A  longer  time  for  you  than  for  me,"  said  he. 

"A  good  deal  has  happened  to  me,"  she  admitted. 

"Are  you  on  the  stage?" 

"No.     Not  yet." 

The  girl  entered  by  way  of  the  private  door.  "Miss 
Lenox — this  way,  please."  She  saw  Brent,  became 
instantly  all  smiles  and  bows.  "Oh — Mr.  Fitzalan 
doesn't  know  you're  here,  Mr.  Brent,"  she  cried.  Then, 
to  Susan,  "Wait  a  minute." 

She  was  about  to  r center  the  private  office  when 
Brent  stopped  her  with,  "Let  Miss  Lenox  go  in  first. 
I  don't  wish  to  see  Mr.  Fitzalan  yet."  And  he  stood 
up,  took  off  his  hat,  bowed  gravely  to  Susan,  said, 
"I'm  glad  to  have  seen  you  again." 

Susan,  with  some  color  forced  into  her  old-ivory 
skin  by  nervousness  and  amazement,  went  into  the  pres 
ence  of  Fitzalan.  As  the  now  obsequious  girl  closed 
the  door  behind  her,  she  found  herself  facing  a  young 
ish  man  with  a  remnant  of  hair  that  was  little  more 
than  fuzz  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His  features  were 
sharp,  aggressive,  rather  hard.  He  might  have  sat 
24 


SUSAN  LENOX 


for  the  typical  successful  American  young  man  of  forty 
— so  much  younger  in  New  York  than  is  forty  elsewhere 
in  the  United  States — and  so  much  older.  He  looked 
at  Susan  with  a  pleasant  sympathetic  smile. 

"So,"  said  he,  "you're  taking  care  of  poor  Spenser, 
are  you?  Tell  him  I'll  try  to  run  down  to  see  him.  I 
wish  I  could  do  something  for  him — something  worth 
while,  I  mean.  But — his  request 

"Really,  I've  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  couldn't  pos 
sibly  place  you — at  least,  not  at  present — perhaps, 
later  on " 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  Susan.  "He's  very  ill. 
It  would  help  him  greatly  if  you  would  write  him  a 
few  lines,  saying  you'll  give  me  a  place  at  the  first 
vacancy,  but  that  it  may  not  be  soon.  I'll  not  trouble 
you  again.  I  want  the  letter  simply  to  carry  him  over 
the  crisis." 

Fitzalan  hesitated,  rubbed  his  fuzzy  crown  with  his 
jeweled  hand.  "Tell  him  that,"  he  said,  finally.  "I'm 
rather  careful  about  writing  letters.  .  .  .  Yes,  say  to 
him  what  you  suggested,  as  if  it  was  from  me." 

"The  letter  will  make  all  the  difference  between  his 
believing  and  not  believing,"  urged  Susan.  "He  has 
great  admiration  and  liking  for  you — thinks  you  would 
do  anything  for  him." 

Fitzalan  frowned;  she  saw  that  her  insistence  had 
roused — or,  rather,  had  strengthened — suspicion. 
"Really — you  must  excuse  me.  What  I've  heard  about 
him  the  past  year  has  not 

"But,  no  matter,  I  can't  do  it.  You'll  let  me  know 
how  he's  getting  on?  Good  day."  And  he  gave  her 
that  polite  yet  positive  nod  of  dismissal  which  is  a 
necessary  part  of  the  equipment  of  men  of  affairs, 
constantly  beset  as  they  are  and  ever  engaged  in  the 


SUSAN  LENOX 


battle  to  save  their  chief  asset,  time,  from  being  wasted. 

Susan  looked  at  him — a  straight  glance  from  gray 
eyes,  a  slight  smile  hovering  about  her  scarlet  lips. 
He  reddened,  fussed  with  the  papers  before  him  on 
the  desk  from  which  he  had  not  risen.  She  opened  the 
door,  closed  it  behind  her.  Brent  was  seated  with  his 
back  full  to  her  and  was  busy  with  his  scribbling.  She 
passed  him,  went  on  to  the  outer  door.  She  was  wait 
ing  for  his  voice;  she  knew  it  would  come. 

"Miss  Lenox!" 

As  she  turned  he  was  advancing.  His  figure,  tall 
and  slim  and  straight,  had  the  ease  of  movement  which 
proclaims  the  man  who  has  been  everywhere  and  so  is 
at  home  anywhere.  He  held  out  a  card.  "I  wish  to 
see  you  on  business.  You  can  come  at  three  this 
afternoon?" 

"Yes,"  said  Susan. 

"Thanks,"  said  he,  bowing  and  returning  to  the 
table.  She  went  on  into  the  hall,  the  card  between  her 
fingers.  At  the  elevator,  she  stood  staring  at  the  name 
— Robert  Brent — as  if  it  were  an  inscription  in  a 
forgotten  language.  She  was  so  absorbed,  so  dazed 
that  she  did  not  ring  the  bell.  The  car  happened  to 
stop  at  that  floor ;  she  entered  as  if  it  were  dark.  And, 
in  the  street,  she  wandered  many  blocks  down  Broad 
way  before  she  realized  where  she  was. 

She  left  the  elevated  and  walked  eastward  through 
Grand  Street.  She  was  filled  with  a  new  and  profound 
dissatisfaction.  She  felt  like  one  awakening  from  a 
hypnotic  trance.  The  surroundings,  inanimate  and 
animate,  that  had  become  endurable  through  custom 
abruptly  resumed  their  original  aspect  of  squalor  and 
ugliness  of  repulsion  and  tragedy.  A  stranger — the 
ordinary,  unobservant,  feebly  imaginative  person,  going 


SUSAN  LENOX 


along  those  streets  would  have  seen  nothing  but  tawdri- 
ness  and  poverty.  Susan,  experienced,  imaginative, 
saw  all — saw  what  another  would  have  seen  only  after 
it  was  pointed  out,  and  even  then  but  dimly.  And  that 
day  her  vision  was  no  longer  staled  and  deadened  by 
familiarity,  but  with  vision  fresh  and  with  nerves  acute. 
The  men — the  women — and,  saddest,  most  tragic  of  all, 
the  children !  When  she  entered  her  room  her  reawak 
ened  sensitiveness,  the  keener  for  its  long  repose,  for 
the  enormous  unconscious  absorption  of  impressions  of 
the  life  about  her — this  morbid  sensitiveness  of  the 
soul  a-clash  with  its  environment  reached  its  climax. 
As  she  threw  open  the  door,  she  shrank  back  before  the 
odor — the  powerful,  sensual,  sweet  odor  of  chypre  so 
effective  in  covering  the  bad  smells  that  came  up  from 
other  flats  and  from  the  noisome  back  yards.  The 
room  itself  was  neat  and  clean  and  plain,  with  not  a 
few  evidences  of  her  personal  taste — in  the  blending  of 
colors,  in  the  selection  of  framed  photographs  on  the 
walls.  The  one  she  especially  liked  was  the  largest — a 
nude  woman  lying  at  full  length,  her  head  supported 
by  her  arm,  her  face  gazing  straight  out  of  the  picture, 
upon  it  a  baffling  expression — of  sadness,  of  cynicism, 
of  amusement  perhaps,  of  experience,  yet  of  innocence. 
It  hung  upon  the  wall  opposite  the  door.  When  she 
saw  this  picture  in  the  department  store,  she  felt  at 
once  a  sympathy  between  that  woman  and  herself,  felt 
she  was  for  the  first  time  seeing  another  soul  like  her 
own,  one  that  would  have  understood  her  strange  sense 
of  innocence  in  the  midst  of  her  own  defiled  and  de 
praved  self — a  core  of  unsullied  nature.  Everyone  else 
in  the  world  would  have  mocked  at  this  notion  of  a 
something  within — a  true  self  to  which  all  that  seemed 
to  be  her  own  self  was  as  external  as  her  clothing;  this 


SUSAN  LENOX 


woman  of  the  photograph  would  understand.    So,  there 
she  hung — Susan's  one  prized  possession. 

The  question  of  dressing  for  this  interview  with 
Brent  was  most  important.  Susan  gave  it  much 
thought  before  she  began  to  dress,  changed  her  mind 
again  and  again  in  the  course  of  dressing.  Through 
all  her  vicissitudes  she  had  never  lost  her  interest  in 
the  art  of  dress  or  her  skill  at  it — and  despite  the 
unfavorable  surroundings  she  had  steadily  improved; 
any  woman  anywhere  would  instantly  have  recognized 
ber  as  one  of  those  few  favored  and  envied  women  who 
know  how  to  get  together  a  toilet.  She  finally  chose 
the  simplest  of  the  half  dozen  summer  dresses  she  had 
made  for  herself — a  plain  white  lawn,  with  a  short 
skirt.  It  gave  her  an  appearance  of  extreme  youth, 
despite  her  height  and  the  slight  stoop  in  her  shoulders 
— a  mere  drooping  that  harmonized  touchingly  with 
the  young  yet  weary  expression  of  her  face.  To  go 
wdth  the  dress  she  had  a  large  hat  of  black  rough  straw 
with  a  very  little  white  trimming  on  it.  With  this 
[arge  black  hat  bewitchingly  set  upon  her  gracefully- 
lone  dark  wavy  hair,  her  sad,  dreamy  eyes,  her 
pallid  skin,  her  sweet-bitter  mouth  with  its  rouged  lips 
seemed  to  her  to  show  at  their  best.  She  felt  that 
nothing  was  quite  so  effective  for  her  skin  as  a  white 
iress.  In  other  colors — though  she  did  not  realize — 
the  woman  of  bought  kisses  showed  more  distinctly — 
never  brazenly  as  in  most  of  the  girls,  but  still  unmis 
takably.  In  white  she  took  on  a  glamour  of  melancholy 
— and  the  human  countenance  is  capable  of  no  expres 
sion  so  universally  appealing  as  the  look  of  melancholy 
that  suggests  the  sadness  underlying  all  life,  the  pain 
that  pays  for  pleasure,  the  pain  that  pays  and  gets  no 
pleasure,  the  sorrow  of  the  passing  of  all  things,  the 


SUSAN  LENOX 


faint  foreshadow  of  the  doom  awaiting  us  all.  She 
washed  the  rouge  from  her  lips,  studied  the  effect  in 
the  glass.  "No,"  she  said  aloud,  "without  it  I  feel  like 
a  hypocrite — and  I  don't  look  half  so  well."  And  she 
put  the  rouge  on  again — the  scarlet  dash  drawn  star- 
tlingly  across  her  strange,  pallid  face. 


XII 

AT  three  that  afternoon  she  stood  in  the  vesti 
bule  of  Brent's  small  house  in  Park  Avenue 
overlooking  the  oblong  of  green  between  East 
Thirty-seventh  Street  and  East  Thirty-eighth.  A  most 
reputable  looking  Englishman  in  evening  dress  opened 
the  door;  from  her  reading  and  her  theater-going  she 
knew  that  this  was  a  butler.  He  bowed  her  in.  The 
entire  lower  floor  was  given  to  an  entrance  hall,  done  in 
plain  black  walnut,  almost  lofty  of  ceiling,  and  with  a 
grand  stairway  leading  to  the  upper  part  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  huge  fireplace  to  the  right ;  a  mirror  filled 
the  entire  back  wall;  a  broad  low  seat  ran  all  round 
the  room.  In  one  corner,  an  enormous  urn  of  dark 
pottery ;  in  another  corner,  a  suit  of  armor,  the  helmet, 
the  breastplate  and  the  gauntlets  set  with  gold  of 
ancient  lackluster. 

The  butler  left  her  there  and  ascended  the  polished 
but  dead-finished  stairway  noiselessly.  Susan  had  never 
before  been  in  so  grand  a  room.  The  best  private 
house  she  had  ever  seen  was  Wright's  in  Sutherland; 
and  while  everybody  else  in  Sutherland  thought  it  mag 
nificent,  she  had  felt  that  there  was  something  wrong, 
what  she  had  not  known.  The  grandiose  New  York 
hotels  and  restaurants  were  more  showy  and  more  pre 
tentious  far  than  this  interior  of  Brent's.  But  her 
unerring  instinct  of  those  born  with  good  taste  knew  at 
first  view  of  them  that  they  were  simply  costly;  there 
were  beautiful  things  in  them,  fine  carvings  and  paint 
ings  and  tapestries,  but  personality  was  lacking.  And 


SUSAN  LENOX 


without  personality  there  can  be  no  unity;  without 
unity  there  can  be  no  harmony — and  without  harmony, 
no  beauty. 

Looking  round  her  now,  she  had  her  first  deep 
draught  of  esthetic  delight  in  interior  decoration. 
She  loved  this  quiet  dignity,  this  large  simplicity — 
nothing  that  obtruded,  nothing  that  jarred,  everything 
on  the  same  scale  of  dark  coloring  and  large  size. 
She  admired  the  way  the  mirror,  without  pretense  of 
being  anything  but  a  mirror,  enhanced  the  spacious 
ness  of  the  room  and  doubled  the  pleasure  it  gave  by 
offering  another  and  different  view  of  it. 

Last  of  all  Susan  caught  sight  of  herself — a  slim, 
slightly  stooped  figure,  its  white  dress  and  its  big  black 
hat  with  white  trimmings  making  it  stand  out  strongly 
against  the  rather  somber  background.  In  a  curiously 
impersonal  way  her  own  sad,  wistful  face  interested  her. 
A  human  being's  face  is  a  summary  of  his  career.  No 
man  can  realize  at  a  thought  what  he  is,  can  epitomize 
in  just  proportion  what  has  been  made  of  him  by  ex 
perience  of  the  multitude  of  moments  of  which  life  is 
composed.  But  in  some  moods  and  in  some  lights  we 
do  get  such  an  all- comprehending  view  of  ourselves  in 
looking  at  our  own  faces.  As  she  had  instinctively  felt, 
there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  the  contrast  between 
her  pensive  brow  above  melancholy  eyes  and  the  blood- 
red  line  of  her  rouged  lips. 

The  butler  descended.  "Mr.  Brent  is  in  his  library, 
on  the  fourth  floor,"  said  he.  "Will  you  kindly  step 
this  way,  ma'am?" 

Instead  of  indicating  the  stairway,  he  went  to  the 
panel  next  the  chimney  piece.  She  saw  that  it  was  a 
hidden  door  admitting  to  an  elevator.  She  entered; 
the  door  closed;  the  elevator  ascended  rapidly.  When 

£28 


SUSAN  LENOX 


it  came  to  a  stop  the  door  opened  and  she  was  facing 
Brent. 

"Thank  you  for  coming,"  said  he,  with  almost  formal 
courtesy. 

For  all  her  sudden  shyness,  she  cast  a  quick  but 
seeing  look  round.  It  was  an  overcast  day ;  the  soft 
floods  of  liquid  light — the  beautiful  light  of  her  be 
loved  City  of  the  Sun — poured  into  the  big  room 
through  an  enormous  window  of  clear  glass  which 
formed  the  entire  north  wall.  Round  the  other  walls 
from  floor  almost  to  lofty  ceiling  were  books  in  solid 
rows;  not  books  with  ornamental  bindings,  but  books 
for  use,  books  that  had  been  and  were  being  used.  By 
way  of  furniture  there  were  an  immense  lounge,  wide 
and  long  and  deep,  facing  the  left  chimney  piece,  an 
immense  table  desk  facing  the  north  light,  three  great 
chairs  with  tall  backs,  one  behind  the  table,  one  near 
the  end  of  the  table,  the  third  in  the  corner  farthest 
from  the  window ;  a  grand  piano,  open,  with  music  upon 
its  rack,  and  a  long  carved  seat  at  its  keyboard.  The 
huge  window  had  a  broad  sill  upon  which  was  built  a 
generous  window  garden  fresh  and  lively  with  bright 
flowers.  The  woodwork,  the  ceiling,  the  furniture  were 
of  mahogany.  The  master  of  this  splendid  simplicity 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  house  suit  of  some  summer  ma 
terial  like  linen.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  of 
fered  her  one  from  the  great  carved  wood  box  filled 
with  them  on  the  table  desk. 

"Thanks,"  said  she.  And  when  she  had  lighted  it 
and  was  seated  facing  him  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  she 
felt  almost  at  her  ease.  After  all,  while  his  gaze  was 
penetrating,  it  was  also  understanding ;  we  do  not  mind 
being  unmasked  if  the  unmasker  at  once  hails  us  as 
brother.  Brent's  eyes  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "Human ! 

229 


SUSAN  LENOX 


— like  me."  She  smoked  and  let  her  gaze  wander  from 
her  books  to  window  garden,  from  window  garden  to 
piano. 

"You  play?"  said  he. 

"A  very  little.  Enough  for  accompaniments  to  sim 
ple  songs." 

"You  sing?" 

"Simple  songs.  I've  had  but  a  few  lessons  from  a 
small-town  teacher." 

"Let  me  hear." 

She  went  to  the  piano,  laid  her  cigarette  in  a  tray 
ready  beside  the  music  rack.  She  gave  him  the  "Gipsy 
Queen,"  which  she  liked  because  it  expressed  her  own 
passion  of  revolt  against  restraints  of  every  conven 
tional  kind  and  her  love  for  the  open  air  and  open 
sky.  He  somehow  took  away  all  feeling  of  embarrass 
ment;  she  felt  so  strongly  that  he  understood  and 
was  big  enough  not  to  have  it  anywhere  in  him  to 
laugh  at  anything  sincere.  When  she  finished  she  re 
sumed  her  cigarette  and  returned  to  the  chair  near 
his. 

"It's  as  I  thought,"  said  he.  "Your  voice  can  be 
trained — to  speak,  I  mean.  I  don't  know  as  to  its  sing 
ing  value.  .  .  .  Have  you  good  health?" 

"I  never  have  even  colds.     Yes,  I'm  strong." 

"You'll  need  it." 

"I  have  needed  it,"  said  she.  Into  her  face  came  the 
sad,  bitter  expression  with  its  curious  relief  of  a  faint 
cynical  smile. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her  through 
a  cloud  of  smoke.  She  saw  that  his  eyes  were  not  gray, 
as  she  had  thought,  but  brown,  a  hazel  brown  with 
points  of  light  sparkling  in  the  irises  and  taking  away 
all  the  suggestion  of  weakness  and  sentimentality  that 


SUSAN  LENOX 


makes  pure  brown  eyes  unsatisfactory  in  a  man.  He 
said  slowly: 

"When  I  saw  you — in  the  Martin — you  were  on 
the  way  down.  You  went,  I  see." 

She  nodded.     "I'm  still  there." 

"You  like  it?     You  wish  to  stay?" 

She  shook  her  head  smilingly.  "No,  but  I  can  stay 
if  it's  necessary.  I've  discovered  that  I've  got  the 
health  and  the  nerves  for  anything." 

"That's  a  great  discovery.  .  .  .  Well,  you'll  soon 
be  on  your  way  up.  .  .  .  Do  you  wish  to  know  why  I 
spoke  to  you  this  morning? — Why  I  remembered  you?" 

"Why?" 

"Because  of  the  expression  of  your  eyes — when  your 
face  is  in  repose." 

She  felt  no  shyness — and  no  sense  of  necessity  of 
responding  to  a  compliment,  for  his  tone  forbade  any 
thought  of  flattery.  She  lowered  her  gaze  to  conceal 
the  thoughts  his  words  brought — the  memories  of  the 
things  that  had  caused  her  eyes  to  look  as  Rod  and 
now  Brent  said. 

"Such  an  expression,"  the  playwright  went  on,  "must 
mean  character.  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  the  vanity  of 
these  actresses  who  can  act  just  enough  never  to  be 
able  to  learn  to  act  well.  I'm  going  to  try  an  ex 
periment  with  you.  I've  tried  it  several  times  but — 
No  matter.  I'm  not  discouraged.  I  never  give  up. 
.  .  .  Can  you  stand  being  alone?" 

"I  spend  most  of  my  time  alone.     I  prefer  it." 

"I  thought  so.  Yes — you'll  do.  Only  the  few  who 
can  stand  being  alone  ever  get  anywhere.  Everything 
worth  while  is  done  alone.  The  big  battle — it  isn't 
fought  in  the  field,  but  by  the  man  sitting  alone  in 
his  tent,  working  it  all  out.  The  bridge — the  tunnel 


SUSAN  LENOX 


through  the  great  mountains — the  railway — the  huge 
business  enterprise — all  done  by  the  man  alone,  think 
ing,  plotting  to  the  last  detail.  It's  the  same  way 
with  the  novel,  the  picture,  the  statue,  the  play — writ 
ing  it,  acting  it — all  done  by  someone  alone,  shut  in 
with  his  imagination  and  his  tools.  I  saw  that  you  were 
one  of  the  lonely  ones.  All  you  need  is  a  chance.  You'd 
surely  get  it,  sooner  or  later.  Perhaps  I  can  bring 
it  a  little  sooner.  .  .  .  How  much  do  you  need  to 
live  on?" 

"I  must  have  fifty  dollars  a  week — if  I  go  on  at — 
as  I  am  now.  If  you  wish  to  take  all  my  time — then, 
forty." 

He  smiled  in  a  puzzled  way. 

"The  police,"  she  explained.     "I  need  ten " 

"Certainly — certainly,"  cried  he.  "I  understand — 
perfectly.  How  stupid  of  me !  I'll  want  all  your  time. 
So  it's  to  be  forty  dollars  a  week.  When  can  you  be- 
gin?" 

Susan  reflected.  "I  can't  go  into  anything  that'll 
mean  a  long  time,"  she  said.  "I'm  waiting  for  a  man 
— a  friend  of  mine — to  get  well.  Then  we're  going  to 
do  something  together." 

Brent  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "An  actor?  Well, 
I  suppose  I  can  get  him  something  to  do.  But  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  under  the  influence  of  any  of  these 
absurd  creatures  who  think  they  know  what  acting 
is — when  they  merely  know  how  to  dress  themselves 
in  different  suits  of  clothes,  and  strut  themselves  about 
the  stage.  They'd  rather  die  than  give  up  their  own 
feeble,  foolish  little  identities.  I'll  see  that  your  actor 
friend  is  taken  care  of,  but  you  mus,t  keep  away  from 
him — for  the  time  at  least." 

"He's  all  I've  got.     He's  an  old  friend." 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"You — care  for  him?" 

"I  used  to.  And  lately  I  found  him  again — after  we 
had  been  separated  a  long1  time.  We're  going  to  help 
each  other  up." 

"Oh— he's  down  and  out— eh?    Why?" 

"Drink— and  hard  luck." 

"Not  hard  luck.  That  helps  a  man.  It  has  helped 
you.  It  has  made  you  what  you  are." 

"What  am  I?"  asked  Susan. 

Brent  smiled  mysteriously.  "That's  what  we're  go 
ing  to  find  out,"  said  he.  "There's  no  human  being 
who  has  ever  had  a  future  unless  he  or  she  had  a  past 
— and  the  severer  the  past  the  more  splendid  the  fu 
ture." 

Susan  was  attending  with  all  her  senses.  This  man 
was  putting  into  words  her  own  inarticulate  instincts. 

"A  past,"  he  went  on  in  his  sharp,  dogmatic  way, 
"either  breaks  or  makes.  You  go  into  the  crucible  a 
mere  ore,  a  possibility.  You  come  out  slag  or  steel." 
He  was  standing  now,  looking  down  at  her  with  quiz 
zical  eyes.  "You're  about  due  to  leave  the  pot,"  said 
lie. 

"And  Pve  hopes  that  you're  steel.  If  not "  He 

shrugged  his  shoulders — "You'll  have  had  forty  a  week 
for  your  time,  and  I'll  have  gained  useful  experience." 

Susan  gazed  at  him  as  if  she  doubted  her  eyes  and 
ears. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  presently  in 
quired. 

"Learn  the  art  of  acting — which  consists  of  two 
parts.  First,  you  must  learn  to  act — thousands  of  the 
profession  do  that.  Second,  you  must  learn  not  to 
act — and  so  far  I  know  there  aren't  a  dozen  in  the 
whole  world  who've  got  that  far  along.  I've  written 


SUSAN  LENOX 


a  play  I  think  well  of.  I  want  to  have  it  done  prop 
erly — it,  and  several  other  plays  I  intend  to  write. 
I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  become  famous — 
better  still,  great." 

Susan  looked  at  him  incredulously.  "Do  you  know 
who  I  am?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Certainly." 

Her  eyes  lowered,  the  faintest  tinge  of  red  changed 
the  amber-white  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  quickly. 

"I  don't  mean,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  know  any  of 
the  details  of  your  experience.  I  only  know  the  results 
as  they  are  written  in  your  face.  The  details  are  un 
important.  When  I  say  I  know  who  you  are,  I  mean 
I  know  that  you  are  a  woman  who  has  suffered,  whose 
heart  has  been  broken  by  suffering,  but  not  her  spirit. 
Of  where  you  came  from  or  how  you've  lived,  I  know 
nothing.  And  it's  none  of  my  business — no  more  than 
it's  the  public's  business  where  I  came  from  and  how 
I've  learned  to  write  plays." 

Well,  whether  he  was  guessing  any  part  of  the  truth 
or  all  of  it,  certainly  what  she  had  said  about  the  po 
lice  and  now  this  sweeping  statement  of  his  attitude 
toward  her  freed  her  of  the  necessity  of  disclosing 
herself.  She  eagerly  tried  to  dismiss  the  thoughts  that 
had  been  making  her  most  uneasy.  She  said : 

"You  think  I  can  learn  to  act?" 

"That,  of  course,"  replied  he.  "Any  intelligent  per 
son  can  learn  to  act — and  also  most  persons  who  have 
no  more  intelligence  in  their  heads  than  they  have  in 
their  feet.  I'll  guarantee  you  some  sort  of  career. 
What  I'm  interested  to  find  out  is  whether  you  can 

learn  not  to  act.  I  believe  you  can.  But "  He 

laughed  in  self-mockery.  "I've  made  several  absurd 


SUSAN  LENOX 


mistakes  in  that  direction.  .  .  .  You  have  led  a  life 
in  which  most  women  become  the  cheapest  sort  of  liars 
— worse  liars  even  than  is  the  usual  respectable  person, 
because  they  haven't  the  restraint  of  fearing  loss  of 
reputation.  Why  is  it  you  have  not  become  a  liar?" 

Susan  laughed.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
because  lying  is  such  a  tax  on  the  memory.  May  I 
have  another  cigarette?" 

He  held  the  match  for  her.  "You  don't  paint — 
except  your  lips,"  he  went  on,  "though  you  have  no 
color.  And  you  don't  wear  cheap  finery.  And  while 
you  use  a  strong  scent,  it's  not  one  of  the  cheap  and 
nasty  kind — it's  sensual  without  being  slimy.  And  you 
don't  use  the  kind  of  words  one  always  hears  in  your 
circle." 

Susan  looked  immensely  relieved.  "Then  you  da 
know  who  I  am!"  she  cried. 

"You  didn't  suppose  I  thought  you  fresh  from  a 
fashionable  boarding  school,  did  you?  I'd  hardly  look 
there  for  an  actress  who  could  act.  You've  got  experi 
ence — experience — experience — written  all  over  your 
face — sadly,  satirically,  scornfully,  gayly,  bitterly. 
And  what  I  want  is  experience — not  merely  having  been 
through  things,  but  having  been  through  them  under- 
standingly.  You'll  help  me  in  my  experiment?" 

He  looked  astonished,  then  irritated,  when  the  girl, 
instead  of  accepting  eagerly,  drew  back  in  her  chair 
and  seemed  to  be  debating.  His  irritation  showed  still 
more  plainly  when  she  finally  said: 

"That  depends  on  him.  And  he — he  thinks  you 
don't  like  him." 

"What's  his  name?"  said  Brent  in  his  abrupt,  in 
tense  fashion.  "What's  his  name?" 

"Spenser — Roderick  Spenser." 
235 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Brent  looked  vague. 

"He  used  to  be  on  the  Herald.     He  writes  plays." 

"Oh — yes.     I  remember.     He's  a  weak  fool." 

Susan  abruptly  straightened,  an  ominous  look  in  eyes 
and  brow. 

Brent  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Beg  pardon. 
Why  be  sensitive  about  him?  Obviously  because  you 
know  I'm  right.  I  said  fool,  not  ass.  He's  clever,  but 
ridiculously  vain.  I  don't  dislike  him.  I  don't  care 
anything  about  him — or  about  anybody  else  in  the 
world.  No  man  does  who  amounts  to  anything.  With 
a  career  it's  as  Jesus  said — leave  father  and  mother, 
husband  and  wife — land,  ox — everything — and  follow 
it." 

"What  for?"  said  Susan. 

"To  save  your  soul!  To  be  a  somebody;  to  be 
strong.  To  be  able  to  give  to  anybody  and  everybody 
— whatever  they  need.  To  be  happy." 

"Are  you  happy?" 

"No,"  he  admitted.  "But  I'm  growing  in  that  di 
rection.  .  .  .  Don't  waste  yourself  on  Stevens — I  beg 
pardon,  Spenser.  You're  bigger  than  that.  He's  a 
small  man  with  large  dreams — a  hopeless  misfit.  Small 
dreams  for  small  men ;  large  dreams  for — "  he  laughed 
— "you  and  me — our  sort." 

Susan  echoed  his  laugh,  but  faint-heartedly.  "I've 
watched  your  name  in  the  papers,"  she  said,  sincerely 
unconscious  of  flattery.  "I've  seen  you  grow  more  and 
more  famous.  But — if  there  had  been  anything  in  me, 
would  I  have  gone  down  and  down?" 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"About  twenty-one." 

"Only  twenty-one — and  that  look  in  your  face! 
Magnificent!  I  don't  believe  I'm  to  be  disappointed 

236 


SUSAN  LENOX 


this  time.  You  ask  why  you've  gone  down!  You 
haven't.  You've  gone  through." 

"Down,"  she  insisted,  sadly. 

"Nonsense !     The  soot'll  rub  off  the  steel." 

She  lifted  her  head  eagerly.  Her  own  secret  thought 
put  into  words. 

"No  secret  longing  for  social  position?"  said  he. 

"None.     Even  if  I  would,  I  couldn't." 

"That's  one  heavy  handicap  out  of  the  way.  But 
I'll  not  let  myself  begin  to  hope  until  I  find  out  whether 
you've  got  incurable  and  unteachable  vanity.  If  you 
have — then,  no  hope.  If  you  haven't — there's  a  fight 
ing  chance." 

"You  forget  my  compact,"  Susan  reminded  him. 

"Oh— the  lover— Spenser." 

Brent  reflected,  strolled  to  the  big  window,  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets.  Susan  took  advantage  of  his  back 
to  give  way  to  her  own  feelings  of  utter  amazement  and 
incredulity.  She  certainly  was  not  dreaming.  And 
the  man  gazing  out  at  the  window  was  certainly  flesh 
and  blood — a  great  man,  if  voluble  and  eccentric.  Per 
haps  to  act  and  speak  as  one  pleased  was  one  of  the 
signs  of  greatness,  one  of  its  perquisites.  Was  he 
amusing  himself  with  her?  Was  he  perchance  taken 
with  her  physically,  and  employing  these  extraordinary 
methods  as  ways  of  approach?  She  had  seen  many 
peculiarities  of  sex-approach  in  men — some  grotesque, 
many  terrible,  all  beyond  comprehension.  Was  this  an 
other  such? 

He  wheeled  suddenly,  surprised  her  eyes  upon  him. 
He  burst  out  laughing,  and  she  felt  that  he  had  read 
her  thoughts.  However,  he  merely  said: 

"Have  you  anything  to  suggest — about  Spenser?" 

237 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  can't, even  tell  him  of  your  offer  now.  He's  very 
ill — and  sensitive  about  you." 

"About  me  ?  How  ridiculous !  I'm  always  coming 
across  men  I  don't  know  who  are  full  of  venom  toward 
me.  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  crowded  him.  No  matter. 
You're  sure  you're  not  fancying  yourself  in  love  with 
him?" 

"No,  I  am  not  in  love  with  him.  He  has  changed 
— and  so  have  I." 

He  smiled  at  her.  "Especially  in  the  last  hour?" 
he  suggested. 

"I  had  changed  before  that.  I  had  been  changing 
right  along.  But  I  didn't  realize  it  fully  until  you 
talked  with  me — no,  until  after  you  gave  me  your  card 
this  morning." 

"You  saw  a  chance — a  hope — eh?" 

She  nodded. 

"And  at  once  became  all  nerves  and  courage.  .  .  . 
As  to  Spenser — I'll  have  some  play  carpenter  sent  to 
collaborate  with  him  and  set  him  up  in  the  play  busi 
ness.  You  know  it's  a  business  as  well  as  an  art.  And 
the  chromos  sell  better  than  the  oil  paintings — except 
the  finest  ones.  It's  my  chromos  that  have  earned  me 
the  means  and  the  leisure  to  try  oils." 

"He'd  never  consent.     He's  very  proud." 

"Vain,  you  mean.  Pride  will  consent  to  anything  as 
a  means  to  an  end.  It's  vanity  that's  squeamish  and 
haughty.  He  needn't  know." 

"But  I  couldn't  discuss  any  change  with  him  until 
he's  much  better." 

"I'll  send  the  play  carpenter  to  him — get  Fitzalan  to 
send  one  of  his  carpenters."  Brent  smiled.  "You 
don't  think  he'll  hang  back  because  of  the  compact, 
do  you?" 

MS 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Susan  flushed  painfully.  "No,"  she  admitted  in  a 
low  voice. 

Brent  was  still  smiling  at  her,  and  the  smile  was 
cynical.  But  his  tone  soothed  where  his  words  would 
have  wounded,  as  he  went  on:  "A  man  of  his  sort — 
an  average,  'there-are-two-kinds-of-women,  good-and- 
bad'  sort  of  man — has  but  one  use  for  a  woman  of  your 
sort." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Susan. 

"Do  you  mind  it?" 

"Not  much.  I'd  not  mind  it  at  all  if  I  felt  that.  I 
was  somebody." 

Brent  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "You'll  do, 
Miss  Lenox,"  he  said  with  quiet  heartiness.  "You 
may  not  be  so  big  a  somebody  as  you  and  I  would  like. 
But  you'll  count  as  one,  all  right." 

She  looked  at  him  with  intense  appeal  in  her  eyes. 
"Why?"  she  said  earnestly.  "Why  do  you  do  this?" 

He  smiled  gravely  down  at  her — as  gravely  as  Brent 
could  smile — with  the  quizzical  suggestion  never  absent 
from  his  handsome  face,  so  full  of  life  and  intelligence. 
"I've  been  observing  your  uneasiness,"  said  he.  "Now 
listen.  It  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  judge  me, 
to  understand  me.  You  are  young,  and  as  yet,  small. 
I  am  forty,  and  have  lived  twenty-five  of  my  forty 
years  intensely.  So,  don't  fall  into  the  error  of  shal 
low  people,  and  size  me  up  by  your  own  foolish  little 
standards.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

Susan's  candid  face  revealed  her  guilt.  "Yes,"  said 
she,  rather  humbly. 

"I  see  you  do  understand,"  said  he.  "And  that's 
a  good  sign.  Most  people,  hearing  what  I  said,  would 
have  disregarded  it  as  merely  my  vanity,  would  have 
gone  on  with  their  silly  judging,  would  have  set  me 

239 


SUSAN  LENOX 


down  as  a  conceited  ass  who,  by  some  accident,  had 
got  a  reputation.  But  to  proceed — I  have  not  chosen 
you  on  impulse.  Long  and  patient  study  has  made 
me  able  to  judge  character  by  the  face,  as  a  horse 
dealer  can  judge  horses  by  looking  at  them.  I  don't 
need  to  read  every  line  of  a  book  to  know  whether 
it's  wise  or  foolish,  worth  while  or  not.  I  don't  need  to 
know  a  human  being  for  years  or  for  hours  or  for  min 
utes  even,  before  I  can  measure  certain  things.  I  meas 
ured  you.  It's  like  astronomy.  An  astronomer  wants 
to  get  the  orbit  of  a  star.  He  takes  its  position  twice 
— and  from  the  two  observations  he  can  calculate  the 
orbit  to  the  inch.  I've  got  three  observations  of  your 
orbit.  Enough — and  to  spare." 

"I  shan't  misunderstand  again,"  said  Susan. 
"One  thing  more,"  insisted  Brent.     "In  our  rela 
tions,  we  are  to  be  not  man  and  woman,  but  master 
and  pupil.    I  shan't  waste  your  time  with  any — other 
matters." 

It  was  Susan's  turn  to  laugh.  "That's  your  polite 
way  of  warning  me  not  to  waste  any  of  your  time 
with — other  matters." 

"Precisely,"  conceded  he.  "A  man  in  my  position — 
a  man  in  any  sort  of  position,  for  that  matter — is  much 
annoyed  by  women  trying  to  use  their  sex  with  him. 

I  wished  to  make  it  clear  at  the  outset  that " 

"That  I  could  gain  nothing  by  neglecting  the  trade 
of  actress  for  the  trade  of  woman,"  interrupted  Susan. 
"I  understand  perfectly." 

He  put  out  his  hand.  "I  see  that  at  least  we'll  get 
on  together.  I'll  have  Fitzalan  send  the  carpenter  to 
your  friend  at  once." 

"Today!"  exclaimed  Susan,  in  surprise  and  delight. 
"Why  not?"     He  arranged  paper  and  pen.     "Sit 

240 


SUSAN  LENOX 


here  and  write  Spenser's  address,  and  your  own.  Your 
salary  begins  with  today.  I'll  have  my  secretary  mail 
you  a  check.  And  as  soon  as  I  can  see  you  again,  I'll 
send  you  a  telegram.  Meanwhile — "  He  rummaged 
among  a  lot  of  paper-bound  plays  on  the  table — 
"Here's  'Cavalleria  Rusticana.'  Read  it  with  a  view 
to  yourself  as  either  Santuzza  or  Lola.  Study  her  first 
entrance — what  you  would  do  with  it.  Don't  be  fright 
ened.  I  expect  nothing  from  you — nothing  whatever. 
I'm  glad  you  know  nothing  about  acting.  You'll  have 
the  less  to  unlearn." 

They  had  been  moving  toward  the  elevator.  He 
shook  hands  again,  and,  after  adjusting  the  mechanism 
for  the  descent,  closed  the  door.  As  it  was  closing  she 
saw  in  his  expression  that  his  mind  had  already  dis 
missed  her  for  some  one  of  the  many  other  matters  that 
crowded  his  life. 


XIII 

THE  Susan  Lenox  who  left  Delancey  Street  at 
half  past  two  that  afternoon  to  call  upon 
Robert  Brent  was  not  the  Susan  Lenox  who  re 
turned  to  Delancey  Street  at  half-past  five.  A  man 
is  wandering,  lost  in  a  cave,  is  groping  this  way  and 
that  in  absolute  darkness,  with  flagging  hope  and  faint 
ing  strength — has  reached  the  point  where  he  wonders 
at  his  own  folly  in  keeping  on  moving — is  persuading 
himself  that  the  sensible  thing  would  be  to  lie  down 
and  give  up.  He  sees  a  gleam  of  light.  Is  it  a  reality  ? 
Is  it  an  illusion — one  more  of  the  illusions  that  have 
lured  him  on  and  on  ?  He  does  not  know ;  but  instantly 
a  fire  sweeps  through  him,  warming  his  dying  strength 
into  vigor. 

So  it  was  with  Susan. 

The  pariah  class — the  real  pariah  class — does  not 
consist  of  merely  the  women  formally  put  beyond  the 
pale  for  violations  of  conventional  morality  and  the 
men  with  the  brand  of  thief  or  gambler  upon  them.  Our 
social,  our  industrial  system  has  made  it  far  vaster. 
It  includes  almost  the  whole  population — all  those  who 
sell  body  or  brain  or  soul  in  an  uncertain  market  for 
uncertain  hire,  to  gain  the  day's  food  and  clothing,  the 
night's  shelter.  This  vast  mass  floats  hither  and  yon 
on  the  tides  and  currents  of  destiny.  Now  it  halts, 
resting  sluggishly  in  a  dead  calm ;  again  it  moves,  some 
times  slowly,  sometimes  under  the  lash  of  tempest. 
But  it  is  ever  the  same  vast  inertia,  with  no  particle  of 
it  possessing  an  aim  beyond  keeping  afloat  and  alive. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Susan  had  been  an  atom,   a   spray  of  weed,   in  this 
Sargasso  Sea. 

If  you  observe  a  huge,  unwieldy  crowd  so  closely 
packed  that  nothing-  can  be  done  with  it  and  it  can 
do  nothing  with  itself,  you  will  note  three  different 
types.  There  are  the  entirely  inert — and  they  make 
up  most  of  the  crowd.  They  do  not  resist;  they  help 
lessly  move  this  way  and  that  as  the  chance  waves  of 
motion  prompt.  Of  this  type  is  the  overwhelming  ma 
jority  of  the  human  race.  Here  and  there  in  the  mass 
you  will  see  examples  of  a  second  type.  These  are  indi 
viduals  who  are  restive  and  resentful  under  the  sense  of 
helplessness  and  impotence.  They  struggle  now  gently, 
now  furiously.  They  thrust  backward  or  forward  or 
to  one  side.  They  thresh  about.  But  nothing  comes 
of  their  efforts  beyond  a  brief  agitation,  soon  clying 
away  in  ripples.  The  inertia  of  the  mass  and  their 
own  lack  of  purpose  conquer  them.  Occasionally  one 
of  these  grows  so  angry  and  so  violent  that  the  sur 
rounding  inertia  quickens  into  purpose — the  purpose 
of  making  an  end  of  this  agitation  which  is  serving 
only  to  increase  the  general  discomfort.  And  the  agi 
tator  is  trampled  down,  disappears,  perhaps  silently, 
perhaps  with  groan  or  shriek.  Continue  to  look  at 
this  crowd,  so  pitiful,  so  terrible,  such  a  melancholy 
waste  of  incalculable  power — continue  to  observe  and 
you  may  chance  upon  an  example  of  the  third  type. 
You  are  likely  at  first  to  confuse  the  third  type  with 
the  second,  for  they  seem  to  be  much  alike.  Here  and 
there,  of  the  resentful  strugglers,  will  be  one  whose 
resentment  is  intelligent.  He  struggles,  but  it  is  not 
aimless  struggle.  He  has  seen  or  suspected  in  a  defi 
nite  direction  a  point  where  he  would  be  more  or  less 
free,  perhaps  entirely  free.  He  realizes  how  he  is 

243 


SUSAN  LENOX 


hemmed  in,  realizes  how  difficult,  how  dangerous,  will 
be  his  endeavor  to  get  to  that  point.  And  he  proceeds 
to  try  to  minimize  or  overcome  the  difficulties,  the  dan 
gers.  He  struggles  now  gently,  now  earnestly,  now 
violently — but  always  toward  his  fixed  objective.  He  is 
driven  back,  to  one  side,  is  almost  overwhelmed.  He 
causes  commotions  that  threaten  to  engulf  him,  and 
must  pause  or  retreat  until  they  have  calmed.  You 
may  have  to  watch  him  long  before  you  discover  that, 
where  other  strugglers  have  been  aimless,  he  aims  and 
resolves.  And  little  by  little  he  gains,  makes  progress 
toward  his  goal — and  once  in  a  long  while  one  such 
reaches  that  goal.  It  is  triumph,  success. 

Susan,  young,  inexperienced,  dazed;  now  too  de 
spondent,  now  too  hopeful;  now  too  gentle  and  again 
too  infuriated — Susan  had  been  alternating  between 
inertia  and  purposeless  struggle.  Brent  had  given  her 
the  thing  she  lacked — had  given  her  a  definite,  concrete, 
tangible  purpose.  He  had  shown  her  the  place  where, 
if  she  should  arrive,  she  might  be  free  of  that  hideous 
slavery  of  the  miserable  mass;  and  he  had  inspired 
her  with  the  hope  that  she  could  reach  it. 

And  that  was  the  Susan  Lenox  who  came  back  to 
the  little  room  in  Delancey  Street  at  half-past  five. 

Curiously,  while  she  was  thinking  much  about  Brent, 
she  was  thinking  even  more  about  Burlingham — about 
their  long  talks  on  the  show  boat  and  in  their  wan 
derings  in  Louisville  and  Cincinnati.  His  philosophy, 
his  teachings — the  wisdom  he  had,  but  was  unable  to 
apply — began  to  come  back  to  her.  It  was  not  strange 
that  she  should  remember  it,  for  she  had  admired  him 
intensely  and  had  listened  to  his  every  word,  and  she 
was  then  at  the  time  when  the  memory  takes  its  clear 
est  and  strongest  impressions.  The  strangeness  lay 


SUSAN  LENOX 


in  the  suddenness  with  which  Burlingham,  so  long  dead, 
suddenly  came  to  life,  changed  from  a  sad  and  tender 
memory  to  a  vivid  possibility,  advising  her,  helping 
her,  urging  her  on. 

Clara,  dressed  to  go  to  dinner  with  her  lover,  was 
waiting  to  arrange  about  their  meeting  to  make  to 
gether  the  usual  rounds  in  the  evening.  "I've  got  an 
hour  before  I'm  due  at  the  hospital,"  said  Susan. 
"Let's  go  down  to  Kelly's  for  a  drink." 

While  they  were  going  and  as  they  sat  in  the  clean 
little  back  room  of  Kelly's  well  ordered  and  select 
corner  saloon,  Clara  gave  her  all  the  news  she  had 
gathered  in  an  afternoon  of  visits  among  their  ac 
quaintances — how,  because  of  a  neighborhood  com 
plaint,  there  was  to  be  a  fake  raid  on  Gussie's  opium 
joint  at  midnight;  that  Mazie  had  caught  a  frightful 
fever;  and  that  Nettie  was  dying  in  Gouverneur  of 
the  stab  in  the  stomach  her  lover  had  given  her  at  a 
ball  three  nights  before ;  that  the  police  had  raised  the 
tariff  for  sporting  houses,  and  would  collect  seventy- 
five  and  a  hundred  a  month  protection  money  where 
the  charge  had  been  twenty-five  and  fifty — the  plea  was 
that  the  reformers,  just  elected  and  hoping  for  one 
term  only,  were  compelling  a  larger  fund  from  vice 
than  the  old  steady  year-in-and-year-out  ruling 
crowd.  "And  they  may  raise  us  to  fifteen  a  week,"  said 
Clara,  "though  I  doubt  it.  They'll  not  cut  off  their 
nose  to  spite  their  face.  If  they  raised  the  rate  for 
the  streets  they'd  drive  two-thirds  of  the  girls  back 
to  the  factories  and  sweat  shops.  You're  not  listening, 
Lorna.  What's  up?" 

"Nothing." 

"Your  fellow's  not  had  a  relapse?" 

"No— nothing." 

245 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Need  some  money?  I  can  lend  you  ten.  I  did 
have  twenty,  but  I  gave  Sallie  and  that  little  Jew 
girl  who's  her  side  partner  ten  for  the  bail  bonds 
man.  They  got  pinched  last  night  for  not  pay 
ing  up  to  the  police.  They've  gone  crazy  about 
that  prize-fighter — at  least,  he  thinks  he  is — that 
Joe  O'Mara,  and  they're  giving  him  every  cent  they 
make.  It's  funny  about  Sallie.  She  keeps  straight 
on  Sunday — no  money'll  tempt  her — I've  seen  it 
tried.  Do  you  want  the  ten?" 

"No.     I've  got  plenty." 

"We  must  look  in  at  that  Jolly  Rovers'  ball  to 
night.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  fellows  with  money  there. 
We  can  sure  pull  off  something  pretty  good.  Any 
how,  we'll  have  fun.  But  you  don't  care  for  the 
dances.  Well,  they  are  a  waste  of  time.  And  be 
cause  the  men  pay  for  a  few  bum  drinks  and  dance 
with  a  girl,  they  don't  want  to  give  up  anything 
more.  How's  she  to  live,  I  want  to  know?" 

"Would  you  like  to  get  out  of  this,  Clara?"  in 
terrupted  Susan,  coming  out  of  her  absent-minded 
ness. 

"Would  I!     But  what's  the  use  of  talking?" 

"I  mean,  go  on  the   stage,"  said  Susan. 

"I  wouldn't  mind,  if  I  could  get  in  right.  Every 
thing  in  this  world  depends  on  getting  in  right.  I 
was  born  four  flights  up  in  a  tenement,  and  I've  been 
in  wrong  ever  since." 

"I  was  in  wrong  from  the  beginning,  too,"  said 
Susan,  thoughtfully.  "In  wrong — that's  it  exactly." 
Clara's  eyes  again  became  eager  with  the  hope  of 
a  peep  into  the  mystery  of  Susan's  origin.  But 
Susan  went  on,  "Yes,  I've  always  been  in  wrong. 
Always." 

246 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Oh,  no,"  declared  Clara.  "You've  got  education 
— and  manners — and  ladylike  instincts.  I'm  at  home 
here.  I  was  never  so  well  off  in  my  life.  I'm,  you 
might  say,  on  my  way  up  in  the  world.  Most  of  us 
girls  are — like  the  fellow  that  ain't  got  nothing  to 
eat  or  no  place  to  sleep  and  gets  into  jail — he's  better 
off,  ain't  he?  But  you — you  don't  belong  here  at 
all." 

"I  belong  anywhere  —  and  everywhere  —  and  no 
where,"  said  Susan.  "Yes,  I  belong  here.  I've  got  a 
chance  uptown.  If  it  pans  out,  I'll  let  you  in." 

Clara  looked  at  her  wistfully.  Clara  had  a  wicked 
temper  when  she  was  in  liquor,  and  had  the  ordinary 
human  proneness  to  lying,  to  mischievous  gossip,  and 
to  utter  laziness.  The  life  she  led,  compelling  cleanli 
ness  and  neatness  and  a  certain  amount  of  thrift  un 
der  penalty  of  instant  ruin,  had  done  her  much  good 
in  saving  her  from  going  to  pieces  and  becoming  the 
ordinary  sloven  and  drag  on  the  energies  of  some 
man.  "Lorna,"  she  now  said,  "I  do  believe  you  like 
me  a  little." 

"More  than  that,"  Susan  assured  her.  "You've 
saved  me  from  being  hard-hearted.  I  must  go  to  the 
hospital.  So  long !" 

"How  about  this  evening?"  asked  Clara. 

"I'm  staying  in.     I've  got  something  to  do." 

"Well — I  may  be  home  early — unless  I  go  to  the 
ball." 

Susan  was  refused  admittance  at  the  hospital.  Spen 
ser,  they  said,  had  received  a  caller,  had  taxed  his 
strength  enough  for  the  day.  Nor  would  it  be  worth 
while  to  return  in  the  morning.  The  same  caller  was 
coming  again.  Spenser  had  said  she  was  to  come  in 

247 


SUSAN  LENOX 


the  afternoon.  She  received  this  cheerfully,  yet  not 
without  a  certain  sense  of  hurt — which,  however,  did 
not  last  long. 

When  she  was  admitted  to  Spenser  the  following 
afternoon,  she  faced  him  guiltily — for  the  thoughts 
Brent  had  set  to  bubbling  and  boiling  in  her.  And 
her  guilt  showed  in  the  tone  of  her  greeting,  in  the 
reluctance  and  forced  intensity  of  her  kiss  and  em 
brace.  She  had  compressed  into  the  five  most  recep 
tive  years  of  a  human  being's  life  an  experience  that 
was,  for  one  of  her  intelligence  and  education,  equal 
to  many  times  five  years  of  ordinary  life.  And  this 
experience  had  developed  her  instinct  for  concealing 
her  deep  feelings  into  a  fixed  habit.  But  it  had  not 
made  her  a  liar — had  not  robbed  her  of  her  funda 
mental  courage  and  self-respect  which  made  her  shrink 
in  disdain  from  deceiving  anyone  who  seemed  to  her 
to  have  the  right  to  frankness.  Spenser,  she  felt  as 
always,  had  that  right — this,  though  he  had  not  been 
frank  with  her;  still,  that  was  a  matter  for  his  own 
conscience  and  did  not  affect  her  conscience  as  to  what 
was  courageous  and  honorable  toward  him.  So,  had 
he  been  observing,  he  must  have  seen  that  something 
was  wrong.  But  he  was  far  too  excited  about  his 
own  affairs  to  note  her. 

"My  luck's  turned !"  cried  he,  after  kissing  her  with 
enthusiasm.  "Fitzalan  has  sent  Jack  Sperry  to  me, 
and  we're  to  collaborate  on  a  play.  I  told  you  Fitz 
was  the  real  thing." 

Susan  turned  hastily  away  to  hide  her  telltale  face. 
"Who's  Sperry?"  asked  she,  to  gain  time  for  self- 
control. 

"Oh,  he's  a  play-smith — and  a  bear  at  it.     He  has 

248 


SUSAN  LENOX 


knocked  together  half  a  dozen  successes.  He'll  sup 
ply  the  trade  experience  that  I  lack,  and  Fitzalan  will 
be  sure  to  put  on  our  piece." 

"You're  a  lot  better — aren't  you?" 

"Better?     I'm  almost  well." 

He  certainly  had  made  a  sudden  stride  toward 
health.  By  way  of  doing  something  progressive  he 
had  had  a  shave,  and  that  had  restored  the  look  of 
youth  to  his  face — or,  rather,  had  uncovered  it.  A 
strong,  handsome  face  it  was — much  handsomer  than 
Brent's — and  with  the  subtle,  moral  weakness  of  opti 
mistic  vanity  well  concealed.  Yes,  much  hand 
somer  than  Brent's,  which  wasn't  really  handsome 
at  all — yet  was  superbly  handsomer,  also — the  hand 
someness  that  comes  from  being  through  and 
through  a  somebody.  She  saw  again  why  she  had 
cared  for  Rod  so  deeply;  but  she  also  saw  why 
she  could  not  care  again,  at  least  not  in  that  same 
absorbed,  self-effacing  way.  Physical  attraction — 
yes.  And  a  certain  remnant  of  the  feeling  of  com 
radeship,  too.  But  never  again  utter  belief,  wor 
shipful  admiration  —  or  any  other  degree  of  be 
lief  or  admiration  beyond  the  mild  and  critical. 
She  herself  had  grown.  Also,  Brent's  penetrat 
ing  and  just  analysis  of  Spenser  had  put  clearly 
before  her  precisely  what  he  was  —  precisely 
what  she  herself  had  been  vaguely  thinking  of 
him. 

As  he  talked  on  and  on  of  Sperry's  visit  and  the 
new  projects,  she  listened,  looking  at  his  character 
in  the  light  Brent  had  turned  upon  it — Brent  who  had 
in  a  few  brief  moments  turned  such  floods  of  light 
upon  so  many  things  she  had  been  seeing  dimly  or 

249 


SUSAN  LENOX 


not  at  all.  Moderate  prosperity  and  moderate  ad 
versity  bring  out  the  best  there  is  in  a  man;  the  ex 
treme  of  either  brings  out  his  worst.  The  actual  man 
is  the  best  there  is  in  him,  and  not  the  worst,  but  it 
is  one  of  the  tragedies  of  life  that  those  who  have  once 
seen  his  worst  ever  afterward  have  sense  of  it  chiefly, 
and  cannot  return  to  the  feeling  they  had  for  him  when 
his  worst  was  undreamed  of.  "I'm  not  in  love  with 
Brent,"  thought  Susan.  "But  having  known  him,  I 
can't  ever  any  more  care  for  Rod.  He  seems  small 
beside  Brent — and  he  is  small." 

Spenser  in  his  optimistic  dreaming  aloud  had  reached 
a  point  where  it  was  necessary  to  assign  Susan  a  role 
in  his  dazzling  career.  "You'll  not  have  to  go  on  the 
stage,"  said  he.  "I'll  look  out  for  you.  By  next  week 
Sperry  and  I  will  have  got  together  a  scenario  for 
the  play  and  when  Sperry  reads  it  to  Fitzalan  we'll  get 
an  advance  of  at  least  five  hundred.  So  you  and  I  will 
take  a  nice  room  and  bath  uptown — as  a  starter — and 
we'll  be  happy  again — happier  than  before." 

"No,  I'm  going  to  support  myself,"  said  Susan 
promptly. 

"Trash!"  cried  Spenser,  smiling  tenderly  at  her. 
"Do  you  suppose  I'd  allow  you  to  mix  up  in  stage 
life?  You've  forgotten  how  jealous  I  am  of  you.  You 
don't  know  what  I've  suffered  since  I've  been  here  sick, 
brooding  over  what  you're  doing,  to " 

She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  lips.  "What's  the  use 
of  fretting  about  anything  that  has  to  be?"  said  she, 
smilingly.  "I'm  going  to  support  myself.  You  may 
as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

"Plenty  of  time  to  argue  that  out,"  said  he,  and 
his  tone  forecast  his  verdict  on  the  arguing.  And 
he  changed  the  subject  by  saying,  "I  see  you  still 

250 


SUSAN  LENOX 


cling  to  your  fad  of  looking  fascinating  about  the 
feet.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons  I  never  could  trust 
you.  A  girl  with  as  charming  feet  and  ankles  as  you 
have,  and  so  much  pride  in  getting  them  up  well, 
simply  cannot  be  trustworthy."  He  laughed.  "No, 
you  were  made  to  be  taken  care  of,  my  dear." 

She  did  not  press  the  matter.  She  had  taken  her 
stand;  that  was  enough  for  the  present.  After  an 
hour  with  him,  she  went  home  to  get  herself  some 
thing  to  eat  on  her  gas  stove.  Spenser's  confidence 
in  the  future  did  not  move  her  even  to  the  extent  of 
laying  out  half  a  dollar  on  a  restaurant  dinner. 
Women  have  the  habit  of  believing  in  the  optimistic 
outpourings  of  egotistical  men,  and  often  hasten  men 
along  the  road  to  ruin  by  proclaiming  this  belief  and 
acting  upon  it.  But  not  intelligent  women  of  experi 
ence;  that  sort  of  woman,  by  checking  optimistic  hus 
bands,  fathers,  sons,  lovers,  has  even  put  off  ruin — 
sometimes  until  death  has  had  the  chance  to  save  the 
optimist  from  the  inevitable  consequence  of  his  folly. 
When  she  finished  her  chop  and  vegetable,  instead  of 
lighting  a  cigarette  and  lingering  over  a  cup  of  black 
coffee  she  quickly  straightened  up  and  began  upon 
the  play  Brent  had  given  her.  She  had  read  it  several 
times  the  night  before,  and  again  and  again,  during 
the  day.  But  not  until  now  did  she  feel  sufficiently 
calmed  down  from  her  agitations  of  thought  and  emo 
tion  to  attack  the  play  understandingly. 

Thanks  to  defective  education  the  most  enlightened 
of  us  go  through  life  much  like  a  dim-sighted  man  who 
has  no  spectacles.  Almost  the  whole  of  the  wonderful 
panorama  of  the  universe  is  unseen  by  us,  or,  if  seen, 
is  but  partially  understood  or  absurdly  misunderstood. 
When  it  comes  to  the  subtler  things,  the  things  of 

251 


SUSAN  LENOX 


science  and  art,  rarely  indeed  is  there  anyone  who 
has  the  necessary  training  to  get  more  than  the  crud 
est,  most  imperfect  pleasure  from  them.  What  little 
training  we  have  is  so  limping  that  it  spoils  the  charm 
of  mystery  with  which  savage  ignorance  invests  the 
universe  from  blade  of  grass  to  star,  and  does  not 
put  in  place  of  that  broken  charm  the  profounder  and 
loftier  joy  of  understanding.  To  take  for  illustration 
the  most  widely  diffused  of  all  the  higher  arts  and 
sciences,  reading:  How  many  so-called  "educated" 
people  can  read  understandingly  even  a  novel,  the  form 
of  literature  designed  to  make  the  least  demand  upon 
the  mind?  People  say  they  have  read,  but,  when  ques 
tioned,  they  show  that  they  have  got  merely  a  glim 
mering  of  the  real  action,  the  faintest  hint  of  style 
and  characterization,  have  perhaps  noted  some  stray 
epigram  which  they  quote  with  evidently  faulty  grasp 
of  its  meaning. 

When  the  thing  read  is  a  play,  almost  no  one  can 
get  from  it  a  coherent  notion  of  what  it  is  about.  Most 
of  us  have  nothing  that  can  justly  be  called  imagina 
tion  ;  our  early  training,  at  home  and  at  school  killed 
in  the  shoot  that  finest  plant  of  the  mind's  garden.  So 
there  is  no  ability  to  fill  in  the  picture  which  the  dra 
matic  author  draws  in  outline.  Susan  had  not  seen 
"Cavalleria  Rusticana"  either  as  play  or  as  opera. 
But  when  she  and  Spenser  were  together  in  Forty- 
fourth  Street,  she  had  read  plays  and  had  dreamed  over 
them;  the  talk  had  been  almost  altogether  of  plays — 
of  writing  plays,  of  constructing  scenes,  of  productions, 
of  acting,  of  all  the  many  aspects  of  the  theater. 
Spenser  read  scenes  to  her,  got  her  to  help  him  with 
criticism,  and  she  was  present  when  he  went  over  his 
work  with  Drumley,  Riggs,  Townsend  and  the  others. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Thus,   reading   a   play   was    no    untried    art   to    her. 

She  read  "Cavalleria"  through  slowly,  taking  about 
an  hour  to  it.  She  saw  now  why  Brent  had  given  it 
to  her  as  the  primer  lesson — the  simple,  elemental  story 
of  a  peasant  girl's  ruin  under  promise  of  marriage; 
of  her  lover's  wearying  of  one  who  had  only  crude 
physical  charm;  of  his  being  attracted  by  a  young 
married  woman,  gay  as  well  as  pretty,  offering  the 
security  in  intrigue  that  an  unmarried  woman  could 
not  offer.  Such  a  play  is  at  once  the  easiest  and  the 
hardest  to  act — the  easiest  because  every  audience  un 
derstands  it  perfectly  and  supplies  unconsciously  al 
most  any  defect  in  the  acting;  the  hardest  because  any 
actor  with  the  education  necessary  to  acting  well  finds 
it  next  to  impossible  to  divest  himself  or  herself  of  the 
sophistications  of  education  and  get  back  to  the  ele 
mental  animal. 

Santuzza  or  Lola?  Susan  debated.  Santuzza  was 
the  big  and  easy  part;  Lola,  the  smaller  part,  was  of 
the  kind  that  is  usually  neglected.  But  Susan  saw  pos 
sibilities  in  the  character  of  the  woman  who  won 
Turiddu  away — the  triumphant  woman.  The  two 
women  represented  the  two  kinds  of  love — the  love  that 
•is  serious,  the  love  that  is  light.  And  experience  had 
taught  her  why  it  is  that  human  nature  soon  tires  of 
intensity,  turns  to  frivolity.  She  felt  that,  if  she  could 
act,  she  would  try  to  show  that  not  Turiddu9 s  fickleness 
nor  his  contempt  of  the  woman  who  had  yielded,  but 
Santuzza's  sad  intensity  and  Lola's  butterfly  gayety 
had  cost  Santuzza  her  lover  and  her  lover  his  life.  So, 
it  was  not  Santuzza's  but  Lola's  first  entrance  that  she 
studied. 

In  the  next  morning's  mail,  under  cover  addressed 
"Miss  Susan  Lenox,  care  of  Miss  Lorna  Sackville,"  as 
25  253 


SUSAN  LENOX 


she  had  written  it  for  Brent,  came  the  promised  check 
for  forty  dollars.  It  was  signed  John  P.  Garvey,  Sec 
retary,  and  was  inclosed  with  a  note  bearing  the  samo 
signature : 

DEAR  MADAM: 

Herewith  I  send  you  a  check  for  forty  dollars  for  the 
first  week's  salary  under  your  arrangement  with  Mr.  Brent. 
No  receipt  is  necessary.  Until  further  notice  a  check  for 
the  same  amount  will  be  mailed  you  each  Thursday.  Un 
less  you  receive  notice  to  the  contrary,  please  call  as  before, 
.at  three  o'clock  next  Wednesday. 

It  made  her  nervous  to  think  of  those  five  days  be 
fore  she  should  see  Brent.  He  had  assured  her  he 
would  expect  nothing  from  her;  but  she  felt  she  must 
be  able  to  show  him  that  she  had  not  been  wasting  her 
time — his  time,  the  time  for  which  he  was  paying  nearly 
six  dollars  a  day.  She  must  work  every  waking  hour, 
except  the  two  hours  each  day  at  the  hospital.  She  re 
called  what  Brent  had  said  about  the  advantage  of  be 
ing  contented  alone — and  how  everything  worth  doing 
must  be  done  in  solitude.  She  had  never  thought  about 
her  own  feelings  as  to  company  and  solitude,  as  it  was 
not  her  habit  to  think  about  herself.  But  now  she 
realized  how  solitary  she  had  been,  and  how  it  had 
bred  in  her  habits  of  thinking  and  reading — and  how 
valuable  these  habits  would  be  to  her  in  her  work. 
There  was  Rod,  for  example.  He  hated  being  alone, 
must  have  someone  around  even  when  he  was  writ 
ing;  and  he  had  no  taste  for  order  or  system.  She 
understood  why  it  was  so  hard  for  him  to  stick  at 
anything,  to  put  anything  through  to  the  finish.  With 
her  fondness  for  being  alone,  with  her  passion  for  read 
ing  and  thinking  about  what  she  read,  surely  she  ought 

254 


SUSAN  LENOX 


soon  to  begin  to  accomplish  something — if  there  was 
any  ability  in  her. 

She  found  Rod  in  higher  spirits.  Several  ideas  for 
his  play  had  come  to  him ;  he  already  saw  it  acted,  suc 
cessful,  drawing  crowded  houses,  bringing  him  in  any 
where  from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  a  week.  She  was 
not  troubled  hunting  for  things  to  talk  about  with 
him — she,  who  could  think  of  but  one  thing  and  that  a 
secret  from  him.  He  talked  his  play,  a  steady  stream 
with  not  a  seeing  glance  at  her  or  a  question  about 
her.  She  watched  the  little  clock  at  the  side  of  the 
bed.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  to  the  minute,  she  in 
terrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  "I  must 
go  now,"  said  she,  rising. 

"Sit  down,"  he  cried.  "You  can  stay  all  day.  The 
doctor  says  it  will  do  me  good  to  have  you  to  talk 
with.  And  Sperry  isn't  coming  until  tomorrow." 

"I  can't  do  it,"  said  she.    "I  must  go." 

He  misunderstood  her  avoiding  glance.  "Now, 
Susie — sit  down  there,"  commanded  he.  "We've  got 
plenty  of  money.  You — you  needn't  bother  about  it 
any  more." 

"We're  not  settled  yet,"  said  she.  "Until  we  are, 
I'd  not  dare  take  the  risk."  She  was  subtly  adroit  by 
chance,  not  by  design. 

"Risk!"  exclaimed  he  angrily.  "There's  no  risk. 
I've  as  good  as  got  the  advance  money.  Sit  down." 

She  hesitated.  "Don't  be  angry,"  pleaded  she  in  a 
voice  that  faltered.  "But  I  must  go." 

Into  his  eyes  came  the  gleam  of  distrust  and  jeal 
ousy.  "Look  at  me,"  he  ordered. 

With  some  difficulty  she  forced  her  eyes  to  meet 
his. 

"Have  you  got  a  lover?" 
255 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"No." 

"Then  where  do  you  get  the  money  we're  living  on?" 

He  counted  on  her  being  too  humiliated  to  answer  in 
words.  Instead  of  the  hanging  head  and  burning 
cheeks  he  saw  clear,  steady  eyes,  heard  a  calm,  gentle 
and  dignified  voice  say: 

"In  the  streets." 

His  eyes  dropped  and  a  look  of  abject  shame  made 
his  face  pitiable.  "Good  Heavens,"  he  muttered. 
"How  low  we  are!" 

"We've  been  doing  the  best  we  could,"  said  she 
simply. 

"Isn't  there  any  decency  anywhere  in  you?"  he 
flashed  out,  eagerly  seizing  the  chance  to  forget  his 
own  shame  in  contemplating  her  greater  degrada 
tion. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window.  There  was  some 
thing  terrible  in  the  calmness  of  her  profile.  She  finally 
said  in  an  even,  pensive  voice: 

"You  have  been  intimate  with  a  great  many  women, 
Rod.  But  you  have  never  got  acquainted  with  a  single 
one." 

He  laughed  good-humoredly.  "Oh,  yes,  I  have.  I've 
learned  that  'every  woman  is  at  heart  a  rake,'  as  Mr. 
Jingle  Pope  says." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  her  face  now  curiously 
lighted  by  her  slow  faint  smile.  "Perhaps  they  showed 
you  only  what  they  thought  you'd  be  able  to  appre 
ciate,"  she  suggested. 

He  took  this  as  evidence  of  her  being  jealous  of  him. 
"Tell  me,  Susan,  did  you  leave  me — in  Forty-fourth 
Street — because  you  thought  or  heard  I  wasn't  true  to 
you?" 

"What  did  Drumley  tell  you?" 
256 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  asked  him,  as  you  said  in  your  note.  He  told 
me  he  knew  no  reason." 

So  Drumley  had  decided  it  was  best  Rod  should 
not  know  why  she  left.  Well,  perhaps — probably — 
Drumley  was  right.  But  there  was  no  reason  why 
he  shouldn't  know  the  truth  now.  "I  left,"  said  she, 
"because  I  saw  we  were  bad  for  each  other." 

This  amused  him.  She  saw  that  he  did  not  believe. 
It  wounded  her,  but  she  smiled  carelessly.  Her  smile 
encouraged  him  to  say :  "I  couldn't  quite  make  up  my 
mind  whether  the  reason  was  jealousy  or  because  you 
had  the  soul  of  a  shameless  woman.  You  see,  I  know 
human  nature,  and  I  know  that  a  woman  who  once 
crosses  the  line  never  crosses  back.  I'll  always  have 
to  watch  you,  my  dear.  But  somehow  I  like  it.  I 
guess  you  have — you  and  I  have — a  rotten  streak  in 
us.  We  were  brought  up  too  strictly.  That  always 
makes  one  either  too  firm  or  too  loose.  I  used  to  think 
I  liked  good  women.  But  I  don't.  They  bore  me. 
That  shows  I'm  rotten." 

"Or  that  your  idea  of  what's  good  is — is  mistaken." 

"You  don't  pretend  that  you  haven't  done  wrong?" 
cried  Rod. 

"I  might  have  done  worse,"  replied  she.  "I  might 
have  wronged  others.  No,  Rod,  I  can't  honestly  say 
I've  ever  felt  wicked." 

"Why,  what  brought  you  here?" 

She  reflected  a  moment,  then  smiled.  "Two  things 
brought  me  down,"  said  she.  "In  the  first  place,  I 
wasn't  raised  right.  I  was  raised  as  a  lady  instead  of 
as  a  human  being.  So  I  didn't  know  how  to  meet  the 
conditions  of  life.  In  the  second  place — "  her  smile 
returned,  broadened —  "I  was  too — too  what's  called 
'good.' " 

257 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Pity  about  you!"  mocked  he. 

"Being  what's  called  good  is  all  very  well  if  you're 
independent  or  if  you've  got  a  husband  or  a  father  to 
do  life's  dirty  work  for  you — or,  perhaps,  if  you  hap 
pen  to  be  in  some  profession  like  preaching  or  teaching 
— though  I  don't  believe  the  so-called  'goodness'  would 
let  you  get  very  far  even  as  a  preacher.  In  most 
lines,  to  practice  what  we're  taught  as  children  would 
be  to  go  to  the  bottom  like  a  stone.  You  know  this  is 
a  hard  world,  Rod.  It's  full  of  men  and  women  fight 
ing  desperately  for  food  and  clothes  and  a  roof  to 
cover  them — fighting  each  other.  And  to  get  on  you've 
got  to  have  the  courage  and  the  indifference  to  your 
fellow  beings  that'll  enable  you  to  do  it." 

"There's  a  lot  of  truth  in  that,"  admitted  Spenser. 
"If  I'd  not  been  such  a  'good  fellow,'  as  they  call  it — 
a  fellow  everybody  liked — if  I'd  been  like  Brent,  for 
instance — Brent,  who  never  would  have  any  friends, 
who  never  would  do  anything  for  anybody  but  himself, 
who  hadn't  a  thought  except  for  his  career — why,  I'd 
be  where  he  is." 

It  was  at  the  tip  of  Susan's  tongue  to  say,  "Yes — 
strong — able  to  help  others — able  to  do  things  worth 
while."  But  she  did  not  speak. 

Rod  went  on:  "I'm  not  going  to  be  a  fool  any 
longer.  I'm  going  to  be  too  busy  to  have  friends  or 
to  help  people  or  to  do  anything  but  push  my  own 
interests." 

Susan,  indifferent  to  being  thus  wholly  misunder 
stood,  was  again  moving  toward  the  door.  "I'll  be 
back  this  evening,  as  usual,"  said  she. 

Spenser's  face  became  hard  and  lowering:  "You're 
going  to  stay  here  now,  or  you're  not  coming  back," 
said  he.  "You  can  take  your  choice.  Do  you  want 

258 


SUSAN  LENOX 


me  to  know  you've  got  the  soul  of  a  atreetwalker?" 

She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  gazing  at  the  wall 
above  his  head.  "I  must  earn  our  expenses  until  we're 
safe,"  said  she,  once  more  telling  a  literal  truth  that 
was  yet  a  complete  deception. 

"Why  do  you  fret  me?"  exclaimed  he.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  be  sick  again?" 

"Suppose  you  didn't  get  the  advance  right  away," 
urged  she. 

"I  tell  you  I  shall  get  it !  And  I  won?t  have  you — 
do  as  you  are  doing.  If  you  go,  you  go  for  keeps." 

She  seated  herself.  "Do  you  want  me  to  read  or 
take  dictation?" 

His  face  expressed  the  satisfaction  small  people  find 
in  small  successes  at  asserting  authority.  "Don't  be 
angry,"  said  he.  "I'm  acting  for  your  good.  I'm 
saving  you  from  yourself." 

"I'm  not  angry,"  replied  she,  her  strange  eyes  rest 
ing  upon  him. 

He  shifted  uncomfortably.  "Now  what  does  that 
look  mean?"  he  demanded  with  an  uneasy  laugh. 

She  smiled,  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Sperry — small  and  thin,  a  weather-beaten,  wooden 
face  suggesting  Mr.  Punch,  sly  keen  eyes,  theater  in 
every  tone  and  gesture — Sperry  pushed  the  scenario 
hastily  to  completion  and  was  so  successful  with  Fitz- 
alan  that  on  Sunday  afternoon  he  brought  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars,  Spenser's  half  of  the  advance 
money. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you!"  said  Spenser  to  Susan,  in  tri 
umph.  "We'll  move  at  once.  Go  pack  your  traps 
and  put  them  in  a  carriage,  and  by  the  time  you're 
back  here  Sperry  and  the  nurses  will  have  me  ready.'* 

259 


SUSAN  LENOX 


It  was   about  three   when   Susan  got  to  her  room. 

"Why,  you're  packing  up!"  cried  Clara,  when  she 
came  in  a  little  later. 

Clara  dropped  into  a  chair  and  began  to  weep.  "I'll 
miss  you  something  fierce!"  sobbed  she.  "You're  the 
only  friend  in  the  world  I  give  a  damn  for,  or  that 
gives  a  damn  for  me.  I  wish  to  God  I  was  like  you. 
You  don't  need  anybody." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  dear,"  cried  Susan. 

"But.,  I  mean,  you  don't  lean  on  anybody.  I  don't 
mean  you're  hard-hearted — for  you  ain't.  You've 
pulled  me  and  a  dozen  other  girls  out  of  the  hole  lots 
of  times.  But  you're  independent.  Can't  you  take  me 
along?  I  can  drop  that  bum  across  the  hall.  I  don't 
give  a  hoot  for  him.  But  a  girl's  got  to  make  believe 
she  cares  for  somebody  or  she'll  blow  her  brains  out." 

"I  can't  take  you  along,  but  I'm  going  to  come  for 
you  as  soon  as  I'm  on  my  feet,"  said  Susan.  "I've  got 
to  get  up  myself  first.  I've  learned  at  least  that  much." 

"Oh,  you'll  forget  all  about  me." 

"No,"  said  Susan. 

And  Clara  knew  that  she  would  not.  Moaned  Clara, 
"I'm  not  fit  to  go.  I'm  only  a  common  streetwalker. 
You  belong-  up  there.  You're  going  back  to  your  own. 
But  I  belong  here.  I  wish  to  God  I  was  like  most  of 
the  people  down  here,  and  didn't  have  any  sense.  No 
wonder  you  used  to  drink  so !  I'm  getting  that  way, 
too.  The  only  people  that  don't  hit  the  booze  hard 
down  here  are  the  muttonheads  who  don't  know  nothing 
and  can't  learn  nothing.  ...  I  used  to  be  contented. 
But  somehow,  being  with  you  so  much  has  made  me 
dissatisfied." 

"That  means  you're  on  your  way  up,"  said  Susan, 
busy  with  her  packing. 

260 

I 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"It  would,  if  I  had  sense  enough.  Oh,  it's  torment 
to  have  sense  enough  to  see,  and  not  sense  enough 
to  do !" 

"I'll  come  for  you  soon,"  said  Susan.  "You're  go 
ing  up  with  me." 

Clara  watched  her  for  some  time  in  silence.  "You're 
sure  you're  going  to  win?"  said  she,  at  last. 

"Sure,"  replied  Susan. 

"Oh,  you  can't  be  as  sure  as  that." 

"Yes,  but  I  can,"  laughed  she.  "I'm  done  with 
foolishness.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  get  up  in  the 
world." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  got  any  respect  for 
yourself?"  said  Clara.  "/  haven't.  And  I  don't  see 
how  any  girl  in  our  line  can  have." 

"I  thought  I  hadn't,"  was  Susan's  reply,  "until  I 
talked  with — with  someone  I  met  the  other  day.  If 
you  slipped  and  fell  in  the  mud — or  were  thrown  into 
it — you  wouldn't  say,  'I'm  dirty,  through  and  through. 
I  can  never  get  clean  again' — would  you?" 

"But  that's  different,"  objected  Clara. 

"Not  a  bit,"  declared  Susan.  "If  you  look  around 
this  world,  you'll  see  that  everybody  who  ever  moved 
about  at  all  has  slipped  and  fallen  in  the  mud — or  has 
been  pushed  in." 

"Mostly  pushed  in." 

"Mostly  pushed  in,"  assented  Susan.  "And  those 
that  have  good  sense  get  up  as  soon  as  they  can,  and 
wash  as  much  of  the  mud  off  as'll  come  off — maybe  all 
— and  go  on.  The  fools — they  worry  about  the  mud. 
But  not  I — not  any  more !  .  .  .  And  not  you,  my  dear 
— when  I  get  you  uptown." 

Clara  was  now  looking  on  Susan's  departure  as  a 
dawn  of  good  luck  for  herself.  She  took  a  headache 

261 


SUSAN  LENOX 


powder,  telephoned  for  a  carriage,  and  helped  carry 
down  the  two  big  packages  that  contained  all  Susan's 
possessions  worth  moving.  And  they  kissed  each  other 
good-by  with  smiling  faces.  Susan  did  not  give  Clara, 
the  loose-tongued,  her  new  address ;  nor  did  Clara,  con 
scious  of  her  own  weakness,  ask  for  it. 

"Don't  put  yourself  out  about  me,"  cried  Clara  in 
farewell.  "Get  a  good  tight  grip  yourself,  first." 

"That's  advice  I  need,"  answered  Susan.  "Good- 
by.  Soon — soon!" 

The  carriage  had  to  move  slowly  through  those  nar 
row  tenement  streets,  so  thronged  were  they  with  the 
people  swarmed  from  hot  little  rooms  into  the  open  to 
try  to  get  a  little  air  that  did  not  threaten  to  burn 
and  choke  as  it  entered  the  lungs.  Susan's  nostrils 
were  filled  with  the  stenches  of  animal  and  vegetable 
decay — stenches  descending  in  heavy  clouds  from  the 
open  windows  of  the  flats  and  from  the  fire  escapes 
crowded  with  all  manner  of  rubbish;  stenches  from  the 
rotting,  brimful  garbage  cans ;  stenches  from  the  gro 
ceries  and  butcher  shops  and  bakeries  where  the  poorest 
qualities  of  food  were  exposed  to  the  contamination  of 
swarms  of  disgusting  fat  flies,  of  mangy,  vermin-har 
assed  children  and  cats  and  dogs ;  stenches  from  the 
never  washed  human  bodies,  clad  in  filthy  garments  and 
drawn  out  of  shape  by  disease  and  toil.  Sore  eyes, 
scrofula,  withered  arm  or  leg,  sagged  shoulder,  hip 
out  of  joint — There,  crawling  along  the  sidewalk,  was 
the  boy  whose  legs  had  been  cut  off  by  the  street  car; 
and  the  stumps  were  horribly  ulcered.  And  there  at 
the  basement  window  drooled  and  cackled  the  fat  idiot 
girl  whose  mother  sacrificed  everything  always  to  dress 
her  freshly  in  pink.  What  a  world ! — where  a  few  peo 
ple — such  a  very  few ! — lived  in  health  and  comfort  and 


SUSAN  LENOX 


cleanliness — and  the  millions  lived  in  disease  and 
squalor,  ignorant,  untouched  of  civilization  save  to 
wear  its  cast-off  .clothes  and  to  eat  its  castaway  food 
and  to  live  in  its  dark  noisome  cellars ! — And  to  toil 
unceasingly  to  make  for  others  the  good  things  of 
which  they  had  none  themselves !  It  made  her  heart 
sick — the  sadder  because  nothing  could  be  done  about 
it.  Stay  and  help?  As  well  stay  to  put  out  a  con 
flagration  barehanded  and  alone. 

As  the  carriage  reached  wider  Second  Avenue,  the 
horses  broke  into  a  trot.  Susan  drew  a  long  breath  of 
the  purer  air — then  shuddered  as  she  saw  the  corner 
where  the  dive  into  which  the  cadet  had  lured  her 
flaunted  its  telltale  awnings.  Lower  still  her  spirits 
sank  when  she  was  passing,  a  few  blocks  further  on, 
the  music  hall.  There,  too,  she  had  had  a  chance,  had 
let  hope  blaze  high.  And  she  was  going  forward — into 
- — the  region  where  she  had  been  a  slave  to  Freddie 
Palmer — no,  to  the  system  of  which  he  was  a  slave  no 
less  than  she 

"I  must  be  strong!  I  must!"  Susan  said  to  her 
self,  and  there  was  desperation  in  the  gleam  of  her 
eyes,  in  the  set  of  her  chin.  "This  time  I  will  fight! 
And  I  feel  at  last  that  I  can." 

But  her  spirits  soared  no  more  that  day. 


XIV 

S PERRY  had  chosen  for  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spenser" 
the  second  floor  rear  of  a  house  on  the  south 
side  of  West  Forty-fifth  Street  a  few  doors  off 
Sixth  Avenue.  It  was  furnished  as  a  sitting-room — 
elegant  in  red  plush,  with  oil  paintings  on  the  walls,  a 
fringed  red  silk-plush  dado  fastened  to  the  mantel 
piece  with  bright  brass-headed  tacks,  elaborate  imita 
tion  lace  throws  on  the  sofa  and  chairs,  and  an  im 
posing  piece  that  might  have  been  a  cabinet  organ 
or  a  pianola  or  a  roll-top  desk  but  was  in  fact  a  com 
fortable  folding  bed.  There  was  a  marble  stationary 
washstand  behind  the  hand-embroidered  screen  in  the 
corner,  near  one  of  the  two  windows.  Through  a 
deep  clothes  closet  was  a  small  but  satisfactory  bath 
room. 

"And  it's  warm  in  winter,"  said  Mrs.  Norris,  the 
landlady,  to  Susan.  "Don't  you  hate  a  cold  bath 
room?" 

Susan  declared  that  she  did. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I  hate  worse,"  said  Mrs. 
Norris,  "and  that's  cold  coffee." 

She  had  one  of  those  large  faces  which  look  bald  be 
cause  the  frame  of  hair  does  not  begin  until  unusually 
far  back.  At  fifty,  when  her  hair  would  be  thin,  Mrs. 
Norris  would  be  homely;  but  at  thirty  she  was  hand 
some  in  a  bold,  strong  way.  Her  hair  was  always 
carefully  done,  her  good  figure  beautifully  corseted. 
It  was  said  she  was  not  married  to  Mr.  Norris — be 
cause  New  York  likes  to  believe  that  people  are  living 


SUSAN  LENOX 


together  without  being  married,  because  Mr.  Norm 
came  and  went  irregularly,  and  because  Mrs.  Norris 
was  so  particular  about  her  toilet — and  everyone  knows 
that  when  a  woman  has  the  man  with  whom  she's 
satisfied  securely  fastened,  she  shows  her  content  or 
her  virtuous  indifference  to  other  men — or  her  laziness 
— by  neglecting  her  hair  and  her  hips  and  dressing  in 
any  old  thing  any  which  way.  Whatever  the  truth  as 
to  Mrs.  Norris's  domestic  life,  she  carried  herself 
strictly  and  insisted  upon  keeping  her  house  as  re 
spectable  as  can  reasonably  be  expected  in  a  large  city. 
That  is,  everyone  in  it  was  quiet,  was  of  steady  and  se 
date  habit,  was  backed  by  references.  Not  until 
Sperry  had  thoroughly  qualified  as  a  responsible  per 
son  did  Mrs.  Norris  accept  his  assurances  as  to  tlie 
Spensers  and  consent  to  receive  them.  Downtown  tlae 
apartment  houses  that  admit  persons  of  loose  char 
acter  are  usually  more  expensive  because  that  class  of 
tenants  have  more  and  expect  more  than  ordinary 
working  people.  Uptown  the  custom  is  the  reverse; 
to  get  into  a  respectable  house  you  must  pay  more. 
The  Spensers  had  to  pay  fourteen  a  week  for  their 
quarters — and  they  were  getting  a  real  bargain,  Mrs. 
Norris  having  a  weakness  for  literature  and  art  where 
they  were  respectable  and  paid  regularly. 

"What's  left  of  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  will  not 
last  long,"  said  Spenser  to  Susan,  when  they  were  es 
tablished  and  alone.  "But  we'll  have  another  five  hun 
dred  as  soon  as  the  play's  done,  and  that'll  be  in  less 
than  a  month.  We're  to  begin  tomorrow.  In  less 
than  two  months  the  play'll  be  on  and  the  royalties  will 
be  coming  in.  I  wonder  how  much  I  owe  the  doctor 
and  the  hospital." 

"That's  settled,"  said  Susan. 
265 


SUSAN  LENOX 


He  glanced  at  her  with  a  frown.  "How  much  was 
it?  You  had  no  right  to  pay!" 

"You  couldn't  have  got  either  doctor  or  room  with-, 
out  payment  in  advance."  She  spoke  tranquilly,  with 
a  quiet  assurance  of  manner  that  was  new  in  her,  the 
nervous  and  sensitive  about  causing  displeasure  in 
others.  She  added,  "Don't  be  cross,  Rod.  You  know 
it's  only  pretense." 

"Don't  you  believe  anybody  has  any  decency?"  de 
manded  he. 

"It  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  decency,"  replied 
she.  "But  why  talk  of  the  past?  Let's  forget  it." 

"I  would  that  I  could !"  exclaimed  he. 

She  laughed  at  his  heroics.  "Put  that  in  your  play," 
said  she.  "But  this  isn't  the  melodrama  of  the  stage. 
It's  the  farce  comedy  of  life." 

"How  you  have  changed!  Has  all  the  sweetness,  all 
the  womanliness,  gone  out  of  your  character?" 

She  showed  how  little  she  was  impressed.  "I've 
learned  to  take  terrible  things — really  terrible  things — 
without  making  a  fuss — or  feeling  like  making  a  fuss. 
You  can't  expect  me  to  get  excited  over  mere — stagi- 
ness.  They're  fond  of  fake  emotions  up  in  this  part 
of  town.  But  down  where  I've  been  so  long  the  real 
horrors  come  too  thick  and  fast  for  there  to  be  any 
time  to  fake." 

He  continued  to  frown,  presently  came  out  of  a  deep 
study  to  say,  "Susie,  I  see  I've  got  to  have  a  serious 
talk  with  you." 

"Wait  till  you're  well,  my  dear,"  said  she.  "I'm 
afraid  I'll  not  be  very  sympathetic  with  your  serious- 


"No — today.     I'm  not  an  invalid.     And  our  rela 
tions  worry  me,  whenever  I  think  of  them." 

266 


SUSAN  LENOX 


He  observed  her  as  she  sat  with  hands  loosely 
clasped  in  her  lap ;  there  was  an  inscrutable  look  upon 
her  delicate  face,  upon  the  clear-cut  features  so  at 
tractively  framed  by  her  thick  dark  hair,  brown  in 
some  lights,  black  in  others. 

"Well?"  said  she. 

"To  begin,  I  want  you  to  stop  rouging  your  lips. 
It's  the  only  sign  of — of  what  you  were.  I'd  a  little 
rather  you  didn't  smoke.  But  as  respectable  women 
smoke  nowadays,  why  I  don't  seriously  object.  And 
when  you  get  more  clothes,  get  quieter  ones.  Not  that 
you  dress  loudly  or  in  bad  taste " 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Susan. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt.     Go  on." 

"I  admire  the  way  you  dress,  but  it  makes  me 
jealous.  I  want  you  to  have  nice  clothes  for  the  house. 
I  like  things  that  show  your  neck  and  suggest  your 
form.  But  I  don't  want  you  attracting  men's  eyes  and 
their  loose  thoughts,  in  the  street.  .  .  .  And  I  don't 
want  you  to  look  so  damnably  alluring  about  the  feet. 
That's  your  best  trick — and  your  worst.  Why  are  you 
smiling — in  that  fashion?" 

"You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  your  wife." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  an  expression  that  was  as  af 
fectionate  as  it  was  generous — and  it  was  most  gener 
ous.  "Well,  you  may  be  some  day — if  you  keep 
straight.  And  I  think  you  will." 

The  artificial  red  of  her  lips  greatly  helped  to  make 
her  sweetly  smiling  face  the  perfection  of  gentle  irony. 
"And  you?"  said  she. 

"You   know   perfectly    well   it's    different    about    a 


know  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  she.     "Among 
267 


SUSAN  LENOX 


certain  kinds  of  people  that  is  the  rule.  But  I'm  not 
of  those  kinds.  I'm  trying  to  make  my  way  in  the 
world,  exactly  like  a  man.  So  I've  got  to  be  free  from 
the  rules  that  may  be  all  very  well  for  ladies.  A 
woman  can't  fight  with  her  hands  tied,  any  more  than 
a  man  can — and  you  know  what  happens  to  the  men 
who  allow  themselves  to  be  tied;  they're  poor  down 
trodden  creatures  working  hard  at  small  pay  for  the 
men  who  fight  with  their  hands  free." 

"I've  taken  you  out  of  the  unprotected  woman 
class,  my  dear,"  he  reminded  her.  "You're  mine,  now, 
and  you're  going  back  where  you  belong." 

"Back  to  the  cage  it's  taken  me  so  long  to  learn  to 
do  without?"  She  shook  her  head.  "No,  Rod— I 
couldn't  possibly  do  it — not  if  I  wanted  to.  ... 
You've  got  several  false  ideas  about  me.  You'll  have 
to  get  rid  of  them,  if  we're  to  get  along." 

"For  instance?" 

"In  the  first  place,  don't  delude  yourself  with  the 
notion  that  I'd  marry  you.  I  don't  know  whether  the 
man  I  was  forced  to  marry  is  dead  or  whether  he's 
got  a  divorce.  I  don't  care.  No  matter  how  free 
I  was  I  shouldn't  marry  you." 

He  smiled  complacently.  She  noted  it  without  irri 
tation.  Truly,  small  indeed  is  the  heat  of  any  kind 
that  can  be  got  from  the  warmed-up  ashes  of  a  burnt- 
out  passion.  She  went  easily  on : 

"You  have  nothing  to  offer  me — neither  love  nor 
money.  And  a  woman — unless  she's  a  poor  excuse — 
insists  on  one  or  the  other.  You  and  I  fancied  we  loved 
each  other  for  a  while.  We  don't  fool  ourselves  in 
that  way  now.  At  least  I  don't,  though  I  believe  you 
do  imagine  I'm  in  love  with  you." 

"You  wouldn't  be  here  if  you  weren't." 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Put  that  out  of  your  head,  Rod.  It'll  only  breed 
trouble.  I  don't  like  to  say  these  things  to  you,  but 
you  compel  me  to.  I  learned  long-  ago  how  foolish  it 
is  to  put  off  unpleasant  things  that  will  have  to  be 
faced  in  the  end.  The  longer  they're  put  off  the  worse 
the  final  reckoning  is.  Most  of  my  troubles  have  come 
through  my  being  too  weak  or  good-natured — or  what 
ever  it  was — to  act  as  my  good  sense  told  me.  I'm 
not  going  to  make  that  mistake  any  more.  And  I'm 
going  to  start  the  new  deal  with  absolute  frankness 
with  you.  I  am  not  in  love  with  you." 

"I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself,"  said 
he. 

"For  a  little  while  after  I  found  you  again  I  did 
have  a  return  of  the  old  feeling — or  something  like  it. 
But  it  soon  passed.  I  couldn't  love  you.  I  know  you 
too  well." 

He  struggled  hard  with  his  temper,  as  his  vanity 
lashed  at  it.  She  saw,  struggled  with  her  old  sensitive 
ness  about  inflicting  even  necessary  pain  upon  others, 
went  on: 

"I  simply  like  you,  Rod — and  that's  all.  We're  well 
acquainted.  You're  physically  attractive  to  me — not 
wildly  so,  but  enough — more  than  any  other  man — 
probably  more  than  most  husbands  are  to  their  wives 
—or  most  wives  to  their  husbands.  So  as  long  as  you 
treat  me  well  and  don't  wander  off  to  other  women, 
I'm  more  than  willing  to  stay  on  here." 

"Really!"  said  he,  in  an  intensely  sarcastic  tone. 
"Really!" 

"Now — keep  your  temper,"  she  warned.  "Didn't  I 
keep  mine  when  you  were  handing  me  that  impertinent 
talk  about  how  I  should  dress  and  the  rest  of  it?  No 
— let  me  finish.  In  the  second  place  and  in  conclusion, 

269 


SUSAN   LENOX 


my  dear  Rod,  I'm  not  going  to  live  off  you.  I'll  pay 
my  half  of  the  room.  I'll  pay  for  my  own  clothes — 
and  rouge  for  my  lips.  I'll  buy  and  cook  what  we 
eat  in  the  room ;  you'll  pay  when  we  go  to  a  restaurant. 
I  believe  that's  all." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  inquired  he  with  much  satire. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Except — if  you  don't  like  my 
terms,  I'm  ready  to  leave  at  once." 

"And  go  back  to  the  streets,  I  suppose?"  jeered  he. 

"If  it  were  necessary — yes.  So  long  as  I've  got  my 
youth  and  my  health,  I'll  do  precisely  as  I  please.  I've 
no  craving  for  respectability — not  the  slightest.  I — 

I "     She  tried  to  speak  of  her  birth,  that  secret 

shame  of  which  she  was  ashamed.  She  had  been  think 
ing  that  Brent's  big  fine  way  of  looking  at  things  had 
cured  her  of  this  bitterness.  She  found  that  it  had 
not — as  yet.  So  she  went  on,  "I'd  prefer  your  friend 
ship  to  your  ill  will — much  prefer  it,  as  you're  the  only 
person  I  can  look  to  for  what  a  man  can  do  for  a 
woman,  and  as  I  like  you.  But  if  I  have  to  take 
tyranny  along  with  the  friendship — "  she  looked  at 
him  quietly  and  her  tones  were  almost  tender,  almost 
appealing — "then,  it's  good-by,  Rod." 

She  had  silenced  him,  for  he  saw  in  her  eyes,  much 
more  gray  than  violet  though  the  suggestion  of  violet 
was  there,  that  she  meant  precisely  what  she  said.  He 
was  astonished,  almost  dazed  by  the  change  in  her. 
This  woman  grown  was  not  the  Susie  who  had  left  him. 
No — and  yet 

She  had  left  him,  hadn't  she?  That  showed  a  char 
acter  completely  hidden  from  him,  perhaps  the  char 
acter  he  was  now  seeing.  He  asked — and  there  was 
no  sarcasm  and  a  great  deal  of  uneasiness  in  his  tone: 

"How  do  you  expect  to  make  a  living?" 
270 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I've  got  a  place  at  forty  dollars  a  week." 

"Forty  dollars  a  week!  You!"  He  scowled  sav 
agely  at  her.  "There's  only  one  thing  anyone  would 
pay  you  forty  a  week  for." 

"That's  what  I'd  have  said,"  rejoined  she.  "But  it 
seems  not  to  be  true.  My  luck  may  not  last,  but  while 
it  lasts,  I'll  have  forty  a  week." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  said  he,  with  the  angry  blunt- 
ness  of  jealousy. 

"Then  you  want  me  to  go?"  inquired  she,  with  a 
certain  melancholy  but  without  any  weakness. 

He  ignored  her  question.     He  demanded: 

"Who's  giving  it  to  you?" 

"Brent." 

Spenser  leaned  from  the  bed  toward  her  in  his  ex 
citement.  "Robert  Brent?"  he  cried. 

"Yes.     I'm  to  have  a  part  in  one  of  his  plays." 

Spenser  laughed  harshly.  "What  rot!  You're  his 
mistress." 

"It  wouldn't  be  strange  for  you  to  think  I'd  accept 
that  position  for  so  little,  but  you  must  know  a  man 
of  his  sort  wouldn't  have  so  cheap  a  mistress." 

"It's  simply  absurd." 

"He  is  to  train  me  himself." 

"You  never  told  me  you  knew  him." 

"I  don't." 

"Who  got  you  the  job?" 

"He  saw  me  in  Fitzalan's  office  the  day  you  sent  me 
there.  He  asked  me  to  call,  and  when  I  went  he 
made  me  the  offer." 

"Absolute  rot.     What  reason  did  he  give?" 

"He  said  I  looked  as  if  I  had  the  temperament  he 
was  in  search  of." 

"You  must  take  me  for  a  fool." 
271 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Why  should  I  He  to  you?" 

"God  knows.  Why  do  women  lie  to  men  all  the 
time?  For  the  pleasure  of  fooling  them." 

"Oh,  no.  To  get  money,  Rod — the  best  reason  in 
the  world,  it  being  rather  hard  for  a  woman  to  make 
money  by  working  for  it." 

"The  man's  in  love  with  you!" 

"I  wish  he  were,"  said  Susan,  laughing.  "I'd  not 
be  here,  my  dear — you  may  be  sure  of  that.  And  I'd 
not  content  myself  with  forty  a  week.  Oh,  you  don't 
know  what  tastes  I've  got!  Wait  till  I  turn  myself 
loose." 

"Well — you  can — in  a  few  months,"  said  Spenser., 
Even  as  he  had  been  protesting  his  disbelief  in  her 
story,  his  manner  toward  her  had  been  growing  more 
respectful — a  change  that  at  once  hurt  and  amused 
her  with  its  cynical  suggestions,  and  also  pleased  her, 
giving  her  a  confidence-breeding  sense  of  a  new  value 
in  herself.  Rod  went  on,  with  a  kind  of  shamefaced 
mingling  of  jest  and  earnest: 

"You  stick  by  me,  Susie,  old  girl,  and  the  time'll 
come  when  I'll  be  able  to  give  you  more  than  Brent." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Susan. 

He  eyed  her  sharply.  "I  feel  like  a  fool  believing 
such  a  fairy  story  as  you've  been  telling  me.  Yet  I 
do." 

"That's  good,"  laughed  she.  "Now  I  can  stay.  If 
you  hadn't  believed  me,  I'd  have  had  to  go.  And  I 
don't  want  to  do  that — not  yet." 

His  eyes  flinched.  "Not  yet?  What  does  that 
mean?" 

"It  means  I'm  content  to  stay,  at  present.  Who 
can  answer  for  tomorrow?"  Her  eyes  lit  up  mock 
ingly.  "For  instance — you.  Today  you  think  you're 


SUSAN  LENOX 


going  to  be  true  to  me — don't  you?  Yet  tomorrow — 
or  as  soon  as  you  get  strength  and  street  clothes,  I  may 
catch  you  in  some  restaurant  telling  some  girl  she's  the 
one  you've  been  getting  ready  for." 

He  laughed,  but  not  heartily.  Sperry  came,  and 
Susan  went  to  buy  at  a  department  store  a  complete 
outfit  for  Rod,  who  still  had  only  nightshirts.  As  she 
had  often  bought  for  him  in  the  old  days,  she  felt  she 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  fitting  him  nearly  enough, 
with  her  accurate  eye  supplementing  the  measurements 
6he  had  taken.  When  she  got  back  home  two  hours  and 
a  half  later,  bringing  her  purchases  in  a  cab,  Sperry 
had  gone  and  Rod  was  asleep.  She  sat  in  the  bath 
room,  with  the  gas  lighted,  and  worked  at  "Cavalleria" 
until  she  heard  him  calling.  He  had  awakened  in  high 
good-humor. 

"That  was  an  awful  raking  you  gave  me  before 
Sperry  came,"  began  he.  "But  it  did  me  good.  A 
man  gets  so  in  the  habit  of  ordering  women  about  that 
it  becomes  second  nature  to  him.  You've  made  it  clear 
to  me  that  I've  even  less  control  over  you  than  you 
have  over  me.  So,  dear,  I'm  going  to  be  humble  and 
try  to  give  satisfaction,  as  servants  say.'* 

"You'd  better,"  laughed  Susan.  "At  least,  until 
you  get  on  your  feet  again." 

"You  say  we  don't  love  each  other,"  Rod  went  on, 
a  becoming  brightness  in  his  strong  face.  "Well — 
maybe  so.  But — we  suit  each  other — don't  we?" 

"That's  why  I  want  to  stay,"  said  Susan,  sitting  on 
the  bed  and  laying  her  hand  caressingly  upon  his.  "I 
could  stand  it  to  go,  for  I've  been  trained  to  stand  any 
thing — everything.  But  I'd  hate  it." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  drew  her  against  his 
breast.  "Aren't  you  happy  here?"  he  murmured. 

273 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Happier  than  any  place  else  in  the  world,"  re 
plied  she  softly. 

After  a  while  she  got  a  small  dinner  for  their  two 
selves  on  the  gas  stove  she  had  brought  with  her  and 
had  set  up  in  the  bathroom.  As  they  ate,  she  cross- 
legged  on  the  bed  opposite  him,  they  beamed  content 
edly  at  each  other.  "Do  you  remember  the  dinner 
we  had  at  the  St.  Nicholas  in  Cincinnati?"  asked 
she. 

"It  wasn't  as  good  as  this,"  declared  he.  "Not 
nearly  so  well  cooked.  You  could  make  a  fortune  as 
a  cook.  But  then  you  do  everything  well." 

"Even  to  rouging  my  lips?" 

"Oh,  forget  it!"  laughed  he.  "I'm  an  ass.  There's 
a  wonderful  fascination  in  the  contrast  between  the 
dash  of  scarlet  and  the  pallor  of  that  clear,  lovely 
skin  of  yours." 

Her  eyes  danced.  "You  are  getting  well!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "I'm  sorry  I  bought  you  clothes.  I'll  be 
uneasy  every  time  you're  out." 

"You  can  trust  me.  I  see  I've  got  to  hustle  to  keep 
my  job  with  you.  Well,  thank  God,  your  friend 
Brent's  old  enough  to  be  your  father." 

"Is  he?"  cried  Susan.  "Do  you  know,  I  never 
thought  of  his  age." 

"Yes,  he's  forty  at  least — more.  Are  you  sure  he 
isn't  after  you,  Susie?" 

"He  warned  me  that  if  I  annoyed  him  in  that  way 
he'd  discharge  me." 

"Do  you  like  him?" 

"I — don't — know,"  was  Susan's  slow,  reflective  an 
swer.  "I'm — afraid  of  him — a  little." 

Both  became  silent.  Finally  Rod  said,  with  an 
impatient  shake  of  the  head,  "Let's  not  think  of  him." 

274 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Let's  try  on  your  new  clothes,"  cried  Susan. 

And  when  the  dishes  were  cleared  away  they  had  a 
grand  time  trying  on  the  things  she  had  bought.  It 
was  amazing  how  near  she  had  come  to  fitting  him. 
"You  ought  to  feel  flattered,"  said  she.  "Only  a  labor 
of  love  could  have  turned  out  so  well." 

He  turned  abruptly  from  admiring  his  new  suit  in 
the  glass  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "You  do  love 
me — you  do !"  he  cried.  "No  woman  would  have  done 
all  you've  done  for  me,  if  she  didn't." 

For  answer,  Susan  kissed  him  passionately;  and  as 
her  body  trembled  with  the  sudden  upheaval  of  emo 
tions  long  dormant  or  indulged  only  in  debased,  hate 
ful  ways,  she  burst  into  tears.  She  knew,  even  in  that 
moment  of  passion,  that  she  did  not  love  him;  but  not 
love  itself  can  move  the  heart  more  deeply  than  grati 
tude — and  her  bruised  heart  was  so  grateful  for  his 
words  and  tones  and  gestures  of  affection ! 

Wednesday  afternoon,  on  the  way  to  Brent's  house, 
she  glanced  up  at  the  clock  in  the  corner  tower  of  the 
Grand  Central  Station.  It  lacked  five  minutes  of  three. 
She  walked  slowly,  timed  herself  so  accurately  that,  as 
the  butler  opened  the  door,  a  cathedral  chime  hidden 
somewhere  in  the  upper  interior  boomed  the  hour 
musically.  The  man  took  her  direct  to  the  elevator,  and 
when  it  stopped  at  the  top  floor,  Brent  himself  opened 
the  door,  as  before.  He  was  dismissing  a  short  fat 
man  whom  Susan  placed  as  a  manager,  and  a  tall, 
slim,  and  most  fashionably  dressed  woman  with  a  beau 
tiful  insincere  face — anyone  would  have  at  once  de 
clared  her  an  actress,  probably  a  star.  The  woman 
gave  Susan  a  searching,  feminine  look  which  changed 
swiftly  to  superciliousness.  Both  the  man  and  the 
woman  were  loath  to  go,  evidently  had  not  finished 

275 


SUSAN  LENOX 


what  they  had  come  to  say.  But  Brent,  in  his  abrupt 
but  courteous  way,  said: 

"Tomorrow  at  four,  then.  As  you  see,  my  next 
appointment  has  begun."  And  he  had  them  in  the 
elevator  with  the  door  closed.  He  turned  upon  Susan 
the  gaze  that  seemed  to  take  in  everything.  "You  are 
in  better  spirits,  I  see,"  said  he. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  interrupted,'*  said  she.  "I  could 
have  waited." 

"But  /  couldn't,"  replied  he.  "Some  day  you'll  dis 
cover  that  your  time  is  valuable,  and  that  to  waste  it 
is  far  sillier  than  if  you  were  to  walk  along  throwing 
your  money  into  the  gutter.  Time  ought  to  be  used 
like  money — spent  generously  but  intelligently."  He 
talked  rapidly  on,  with  his  manner  as  full  of  unex 
pressed  and  inexpressible  intensity  as  the  voice  of  the 
violin,  with  his  frank  egotism  that  had  no  suggestion  of 
vanity  or  conceit.  "Because  I  systematize  my  time, 
I'm  never  in  a  hurry,  never  at  a  loss  for  time  to  give 
to  whatever  I  wish.  I  didn't  refuse  to  keep  you  waiting 
for  your  sake  but  for  my  own.  Now  the  next  hour 
belongs  to  you  and  me — -and  we'll  forget  about  time — 
as,  if  we  were  dining  in  a  restaurant,  we'd  not  think  of 
the  bill  till  it  was  presented.  What  did  you  do  with 
the  play?" 

Susan  could  only  look  at  him  helplessly. 

He  laughed,  handed  her  a  cigarette,  rose  to  light  a 
match  for  her.  "Settle  yourself  comfortably,"  said 
he,  "and  say  what's  in  your  head." 

With  hands  deep  in  the  trousers  of  his  house  suit, 
he  paced  up  and  down  the  long  room,  the  cigarette 
loose  between  his  lips.  Whenever  she  saw  his  front  face 
she  was  reassured;  but  whenever  she  saw  his  profile, 
her  nerves  trembled — for  in  the  profile  there  was  an 

276 


SUSAN   LENOX 


expression  of  almost  ferocious  resolution,  of  tragic 
sadness,  of  the  sternness  that  spares  not.  The  full 
face  was  kind,  if  keen;  was  sympathetic — was  the  man 
as  nature  had  made  him.  The  profile  was  the  great 
man — the  man  his  career  had  made.  And  Susan  knew 
that  the  profile  was  master. 

"Which  part  did  you  like — Santuzza  or  Lola?" 

"Lola"  replied  she. 

He  paused,  looked  at  her  quickly.     Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  sympathize  with  the  woman — or  the 
man — who's  deserted.  I  pity,  but  I  can't  help  seeing 
it's  her  or  his  own  fault.  Lola  explains  why.  Wouldn't 
you  rather  laugh  than  cry?  Santuzza  may  have  been 
attractive  in  the  moments  of  passion,  but  how  she  must 
have  bored  Turiddu  the  rest  of  the  time!  She  was  so 
intense,  so  serious — so  vain  and  selfish." 

"Vain  and  selfish?  That's  interesting."  He  walked 
up  and  down  several  times,  then  turned  on  her  ab 
ruptly.  "Well — go  on,"  he  said.  "I'm  waiting  to  hear 
why  she  was  vain  and  selfish." 

"Isn't  it  vain  for  a  woman  to  think  a  man  ought  to 
be  crazy  about  her  all  the  time  because  he  once  has 
been?  Isn't  it  selfish  for  her  to  want  him  to  be  true 
to  her  because  it  gives  her  pleasure,  even  though  she 
knows  it  doesn't  give  him  pleasure?" 

"Men  and  women  are  all  vain  and  selfish  in  love," 
said  he. 

"But  the  Women  are  meaner  than  the  men,"  replied 
she,  "because  they're  more  ignorant  and  narrow- 
minded." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  an  expression  that  made 
her  uneasy.  "But  that  isn't  in  the  play — none  of  it," 
said  he. 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be,"  replied  she.  "Santuzza  is  the 
277 


SUSAN  LENOX 


old-fashioned  conventional  heroine.  I  used  to  like 
them — until  I  had  lived  a  little,  myself.  She  isn't  true 
to  life.  But  in  Lola " 

"Yes — what  about  Lola?'9  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  she  wasn't  a  heroine,  either.  She  was  just 
human — taking  happiness  when  it  offered.  And  her 
gajety — and  her  capriciousness.  A  man  will  always 
break  away  from  a  solemn,  intense  woman  to  get  that 
sort  of  sunshine." 

"Yes — yes — go  on,"  said  Brent. 

"And  her  sour,  serious,  solemn  husband  explains  why 
wives  are  untrue  to  their  husbands.  At  least,  it  seems 
so  to  me." 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  again.  Every  trace 
of  indolence,  of  relaxation,  was  gone  from  his  gait  and 
from  his  features.  His  mind  was  evidently  working 
like  an  engine  at  full  speed.  Suddenly  he  halted. 
"You've  given  me  a  big  idea,"  said  he.  "I'll  throw 
away  the  play  I  was  working  on.  I'll  do  your  play." 

Susan  laughed — pleased,  yet  a  little  afraid  he  was 
kinder  than  she  deserved.  "What  I  said  was  only 
common  sense — what  my  experience  has  taught  me." 

"That's  all  that  genius  is,  my  dear,"  replied  he.  "As 
soon  as  we're  born,  our  eyes  are  operated  on  so  that 
we  shall  never  see  anything  as  it  is.  The  geniuses  are 
those  who  either  escape  the  operation  or  are  reendowed 
with  true  sight  by  experience."  He  nodded  approv 
ingly  at  her.  "You're  going  to  be  a  person — or,  rather, 
you're  going  to  show  you're  a  person.  But  that  comes 
later.  You  thought  of  Lola  as  your  part?" 

"I  tried  to.  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  act 
ing — except  what  I've  seen  and  the  talk  I've  heard." 

"As  I  said  the  other  day,  that  means  you've  little 
to  learn.  Now — as  to  Lola's  entrance." 

278 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Oh,  I  thought  of  a  lot  of  things  to  do — to  show 
that  she,  too,  loved  Turiddu  and  that  she  had  as  much 
right  to  love — and  to  be  loved — as  Santuzza  had.  San 
tuzza  had  had  her  chance,  and  had  failed." 

Brent  was  highly  amused.  "You  seem  to  forget  that 
Lola  was  a  married  woman — and  that  if  Santuzza  didn't 
get  a  husband  she'd  be  the  mother  of  a  fatherless 
child." 

Never  had  he  seen  in  her  face  such  a  charm  of  sweet 
melancholy  as  at  that  moment.  "I  suppose  the  way 
I  was  born  and  the  life  I've  led  make  me  think  less  of 
those  things  than  most  people  do,"  replied  she.  "I  was 
talking  about  natural  hearts — what  people  think  in 
side — the  way  they  act  when  they  have  courage." 

"When  they  have  courage,"  Brent  repeated  reflect 
ively.  "But  who  has  courage?" 

"A  great  many  people  are  compelled  to  have  it," 
said  she. 

"I  never  had  it  until  I  got  enough  money  to  be  inde 
pendent." 

"I  never  had  it,"  said  Susan,  "until  I  had  no  money." 

He  leaned  against  the  big  table,  folded  his  arms  on 
his  chest,  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  made  her  feel 
absolutely  at  ease  with  him.  Said  he: 

"You  have  known  what  it  was  to  have  no  money — 
none?" 

Susan  nodded.  "And  no  friends — no  place  to  sleep 
— worse  off  than  Robinson  Crusoe  when  the  waves  threw 
him  on  the  island.  I  had  to — to  suck  my  own  blood  to 
keep  alive." 

"You  smile  as  you  say  that,"  said  he. 

"If  I  hadn't  learned  to  smile  over  such  things,"  she 
answered,  "I'd  have  been  dead  long  ago." 

He  seated  himself  opposite  her.     He  asked: 
279 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Why  didn't  you  kill  yourself?" 

"I  was  afraid." 

"Of  the  hereafter?" 

"Oh  no.  Of  missing  the  coming  true  of  my  dreams 
about  life." 

"Love?" 

"That — and  more.  Just  love  wouldn't  satisfy  me. 
I  want  to  see  the  world — to  know  the  world — and  to 
be  somebody.  I  want  to  try  everything." 

She  laughed  gayly — a  sudden  fascinating  vanishing 
of  the  melancholy  of  eyes  and  mouth,  a  sudden  flashing 
out  of  young  beauty.  "I've  been  down  about  as  deep 
as  one  can  go.  I  want  to  explore  in  the  other  direc 
tion." 

"Yes — yes,"  said  Brent,  absently.  "You  must  see 
it  all" 

He  remained  for  some  time  in  a  profound  reverie, 
she  as  unconscious  of  the  passing  of  time  as  he — for  if 
he  had  his  thoughts,  she  had  his  face  to  study.  Try 
as  she  would,  she  could  not  associate  the  idea  of  age 
with  him — any  age.  He  seemed  simply  a  grown  man. 
And  the  more  closely  she  studied  him  the  greater  her 
awe  became.  He  knew  so  much ;  he  understood  so  well. 
She  could  not  imagine  him  swept  away  by  any  of  the 
petty  emotions — the  vanities,  the  jealousies,  the  small 
rages,  the  small  passions  and  loves  that  made  up  the 
petty  days  of  the  small  creatures  who  inhabit  the  world 
and  call  it  theirs.  Could  he  fall  in  love?  Had  he  been 
in  love?  Yes — he  must  have  been  in  love — many  times 
— for  many  women  must  have  taken  trouble  to  please 
a  man  so  well  worth  while,  and  he  must  have  passed 
from  one  woman  to  another  as  his  whims  or  his  tastes 
changed.  Could  he  ever  care  about  her — as  a  woman? 
Did  he  think  her  worn  out  as  a  physical  woman?  Or 

280 


SUSAN   LENOX 


would  he  realize  that  body  is  nothing  by  itself;  that 
unless  the  soul  enters  it,  it  is  cold  and  meaningless  and 
worthless — like  the  electric  bulb  when  the  filament  is 
dark  and  the  beautiful,  hot,  brilliant  and  intensely  liv 
ing  current  is  not  in  it?  Could  she  love  him?  Could 
she  ever  feel  equal  and  at  ease,  through  and  through, 
with  a  man  so  superior? 

"You'd  better  study  the  part  of  Lola — learn  the 
lines,"  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  reflecting. 
"Then — this  day  week  at  the  same  hour — we  will  begin. 
We  will  work  all  afternoon — we  will  dine  together — go 
to  some  theater  where  I  can  illustrate  what  I  mean. 
Beginning  with  next  Wednesday  that  will  be  the  pro 
gram  every  day  until  further  notice." 

"Until  you  see  whether  you  can  do  anything  with 
me  or  not?" 

"Just  so.    You  are  living  with  Spenser?" 

"Yes."  Susan  could  have  wished  his  tone  less  matter- 
of-fact. 

"How  is  he  getting  on?" 

"He  and  Sperry  are  doing  a  play  for  Fitzalan." 

"Really?  That's  good.  He  has  talent.  If  he'll 
learn  of  Sperry  and  talk  less  and  work  more,  and 
steadily,  he'll  make  a  lot  of  money.  You  are  not  tied 
to  him  in  any  way?" 

"No — not  now  that  he's  prospering.  Except,  of 
course,  that  I'm  fond  of  him." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  everybody  must 
have  somebody.  You've  not  seen  this  house.  I'll  show 
it  to  you,  as  we've  still  fifteen  minutes." 

A  luxurious  house  it  was — filled  with  things  curious 
and,  some  of  them,  beautiful — things  gathered  in  ex 
cursions  through  Europe,  Susan  assumed.  The  only 
absolutely  simple  room  was  his  bedroom,  big  and  bare 

281 


SUSAN   LENOX 


and  so  arranged  that  he  could  sleep  practically  out  of 
doors.  She  saw  servants — two. men  besides  the  butler, 
several  women.  But  the  house  was  a  bachelor's  house, 
with  not  a  trace  of  feminine  influence.  And  evidently 
he  cared  nothing  about  it  but  lived  entirely  in  that 
wonderful  world  which  so  awed  Susan — the  world  he 
had  created  within  himself,  the  world  of  which  she  had 
alluring  glimpses  through  his  eyes,  through  his  tones 
and  gestures  even.  Small  people  strive  to  make,  and 
do  make,  impression  of  themselves  by  laboring  to  show 
what  they  know  and  think.  But  the  person  of  the 
larger  kind  makes  no  such  effort.  In  everything  Brent 
said  and  did  and  wore,  in  all  his  movements,  gestures, 
expressions,  there  was  the  unmistakable  hallmark  of  the 
man  worth  while.  The  social  life  has  banished  sim 
plicity  from  even  the  most  savage  tribe.  Indeed,  sav 
ages,  filled  with  superstitions,  their  every  movement  the 
result  of  some  notion  of  proper  ceremonial,  are  the 
most  complex  of  all  the  human  kind.  The  effort  toward 
simplicity  is  not  a  movement  back  to  nature,  for  there 
savage  and  lower  animal  are  completely  enslaved  by 
custom  and  instinct;  it  is  a  movement  upward  toward 
the  freedom  of  thought  and  action  of  which  our  best 
intelligence  has  given  us  a  conception  and  for  which 
it  has  given  us  a  longing.  Never  had  Susan  met  so 
simple  a  man;  and  never  had  she  seen  one  so  far  from 
all  the  silly  ostentations  of  rudeness,  of  unattractive 
dress,  of  eccentric  or  coarse  speech  wherewith  the  cheap 
sort  of  man  strives  to  proclaim  himself  individual  and 
free. 

With  her  instinct  for  recognizing  the  best  at  first 
sight,  Susan  at  once  understood.  And  she  was  like  one 
who  has  been  stumbling  about  searching  for  the  right 
road,  and  has  it  suddenly  shown  to  him.  She  fairly 

282 


SUSAN   LENOX 


darted  along  this  right  road.  She  was  immediately 
busy,  noting  the  mistakes  in  her  own  ideas  of  manners 
and  dress,  of  good  and  bad  taste.  She  realized  how 
much  she  had  to  learn.  But  this  did  not  discourage 
her.  For  she  realized  at  the  same  time  that  she  could 
learn — and  his  obvious  belief  in  her  as  a  possibility  was 
most  encouraging. 

When  he  bade  her  good-by  at  the  front  door  and  it 
closed  behind  her,  she  was  all  at  once  so  tired  that  it 
seemed  to  her  she  would  then  and  there  sink  down 
through  sheer  fatigue  and  fall  asleep.  For  no  physical 
exercise  so  quickly  and  utterly  exhausts  as  real  brain 
exercise — thinking,  studying,  learning  with  all  the  con 
centrated  intensity  of  a  thoroughbred  in  the  last  quar 
ter  of  the  mile  race. 


XV 

SPENSER  had  time  and  thought  for  his  play  only. 
He  no  longer  tormented  himself  with  jealousy  of 
the  abilities  and  income  and  fame  of  Brent  and 
the  other  successful  writers  for  the  stage;  was  not  he 
about  to  equal  them,  probably  to  surpass  them?  As 
a  rule,  none  of  the  mean  emotions  is  able  to  thrive — 
unless  it  has  the  noxious  vapors  from  disappointment 
and  failure  to  feed  upon.  Spenser,  in  spirits  and  in 
hope  again,  was  content  with  himself.  Jealousy  of 
Brent  about  Susan  had  been  born  of  dissatisfaction 
with  himself  as  a  failure  and  envy  of  Brent  as  a  suc 
cess;  it  died  with  that  dissatisfaction  and  that  envy. 
His  vanity  assured  him  that  while  there  might  be — 
possibly — ways  in  which  he  was  not  without  rivals, 
certainly  where  women  were  concerned  he  simply  could 
not  be  equaled ;  the  woman  he  wanted  he  could  have — 
and  he  could  hold  her  as  long  as  he  wished.  The  idea 
that  Susan  would  give  a  sentimental  thought  to  a  man 
"old  enough  to  be  her  father" — Brent  was  forty-one — 
was  too  preposterous  to  present  itself  to  his  mind.  She 
loved  the  handsome,  fascinating,  youthful  Roderick 
Spenser;  she  would  soon  be  crazy  about  him. 

Rarely  does  it  occur  to  a  man  to  wonder  what  a 
woman  is  thinking.  During  courtship  very  young  men 
attribute  intellect  and  qualities  of  mystery  and  awe  to 
the  woman  they  love.  But  after  men  get  an  insight 
into  the  mind  of  woman  and  discover  how  trivial  are 
the  matters  that  of  necessity  usually  engage  it,  they 
become  skeptical  about  feminine  mentality;  they  would 


SUSAN  LENOX 


as  soon  think  of  speculating  on  what  profundities  fill 
the  brain  of  the  kitten  playing  with  a  ball  as  of  seeking 
a  solution  of  the  mystery  behind  a  woman's  fits  of  ab 
straction.  However,  there  was  in  Susan's  face,  espe 
cially  in  her  eyes,  an  expression  so  unusual,  so  arresting 
that  Spenser,  self-centered  and  convinced  of  woman's 
intellectual  deficiency  though  he  was,  did  sometimes 
inquire  what  she  was  thinking  about.  He  asked  this 
question  at  breakfast  the  morning  after  that  second 
visit  to  Brent. 

"Was  I  thinking?"  she  countered. 

"You  certainly  were  not  listening.  You  haven't  a 
notion  what  I  was  talking  about." 

"About  your  play." 

"Of  course.  You  know  I  talk  nothing  else,"  laughed 
he.  "I  must  bore  you  horribly." 

"No,  indeed,"  protested  she. 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  You're  not  bored  because  you 
don't  listen." 

He  was  cheerful  about  it.  He  talked  merely  to  ar 
range  his  thoughts,  not  because  he  expected  Susan  to 
understand  matters  far  above  one  whom  nature  ha4 
fashioned  and  experience  had  trained  to  minister  satis- 
fyingly  to  the  physical  and  sentimental  needs  of  man. 
He  assumed  that  she  was  as  worshipful  before  his 
intellect  as  in  the  old  days.  He  would  have  been  even 
more  amazed  than  enraged  had  he  known  that  she  re 
garded  his  play  as  mediocre  claptrap,  false  to  life,  fit 
only  for  the  unthinking,  sloppily  sentimental  crowd 
that  could  not  see  the  truth  about  even  their  own 
lives,  their  own  thoughts  and  actions. 

"There  you  go  again !"  cried  he,  a  few  minutes  later, 
"What  are  you  thinking  about?  I  forgot  to  ask  how 
you  got  on  with  Brent.  Poor  chap — he's  had  several 
26  285 


SUSAN   LENOX 


failures  in  the  past  year.  He  must  be  horribly  cut  up. 
They  say  he's  written  out.  What  does  he  think  he's 
trying  to  get  at  with  you?" 

"Acting,  as  I  told  you,"  replied  Susan.  She  felt 
ashamed  for  him,  making  this  pitiable  exhibition  of 
patronizing  a  great  man. 

"Sperry  tells  me  he  has  had  that  twist  in  his  brain 
for  a  long  time — that  he  has  tried  out  a  dozen  girls  or 
more — drops  them  after  a  few  weeks  or  months.  He 
has  a  regular  system  about  it — runs  away  abroad, 
stops  the  pay  after  a  month  or  so." 

"Well,  the  forty  a  week's  clear  gain  while  it  lasts," 
said  Susan.  She  tried  to  speak  lightly.  But  she  felt 
hurt  and  uncomfortable.  There  had  crept  into  her 
mind  one  of  those  disagreeable  ideas  that  skurry  into 
some  dusky  corner  to  hide,  and  reappear  from  time  to 
time  making  every  fit  of  the  blues  so  much  the  sadder 
and  aggravating  despondency  toward  despair. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  suggest  that  you  wouldn't  suc 
ceed,"  Spenser  hastened  to  apologize  with  more  or  less 
real  kindliness.  "Sperry  says  Brent  has  some  good 
ideas  about  acting.  So,  you'll  learn  something — maybe 
enough  to  enable  me  to  put  you  in  a  good  position — if 
Brent  gets  tired  and  if  you  still  want  to  be  independent, 
as  you  call  it." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Susan  absently. 

Spenser  was  no  more  absorbed  in  his  career  than  she 
in  hers ;  only,  she  realized  how  useless  it  would  be  to  try 
to  talk  it  to  him — that  he  would  not  give  her  so  much 
as  ears  in  an  attitude  of  polite  attention.  If  he  could 
have  looked  into  her  head  that  morning  and  seen  what 
thoughts  were  distracting  her  from  hearing  about  the 
great  play,  he  would  have  been  more  amused  and  dis 
gusted  than  ever  with  feminine  frivolity  of  mind  and 

286 


SUSAN   LENOX 


incapacity  in  serious  matters.  For,  it  so  happened 
that  at  the  moment  Susan  was  concentrating  on  a  new 
dress.  He  would  have  laughed  in  the  face  of  anyone 
saying  to  him  that  this  new  dress  was  for  Susan  in 
the  pursuit  of  her  scheme  of  life  quite  as  weighty  a 
matter,  quite  as  worthy  of  the  most  careful  attention, 
as  was  his  play  for  him.  Yet  that  would  have  been 
the  literal  truth.  Primarily  man's  appeal  is  to  the  ear, 
woman's  to  the  eye — the  reason,  by  the  way,  why  the 
theater — preeminently  the  place  to  see — tends  to  be 
dominated  by  woman. 

Susan  had  made  up  her  mind  not  only  that  she  would 
rapidly  improve  herself  in  every  way,  but  also  how  she 
would  go  about  the  improving.  She  saw  that,  for  a 
woman  at  least,  dress  is  as  much  the  prime  essential  as 
an  arresting  show  window  for  a  dealer  in  articles  that 
display  well.  She  knew  she  was  far  from  the  goal  of 
which  she  dreamed — the  position  where  she  would  no 
longer  be  a  woman  primarily  but  a  personage.  Dress 
would  not  merely  increase  her  physical  attractiveness ; 
it  would  achieve  the  far  more  important  end  of  gam 
ing  her  a  large  measure  of  consideration.  She  felt  that 
Brent,  even  Brent,  dealer  in  actualities  and  not  to  be 
fooled  by  pretenses,  would  in  spite  of  himself  change 
his  opinion  of  her  if  she  went  to  him  dressed  less  like 
a  middle  class  working  girl,  more  like  the  woman  of 
the  upper  classes.  At  best,  using  all  the  advantages 
she  had,  she  felt  there  was  small  enough  chance  of  her 
holding  his  interest;  for  she  could  not  make  herself 
believe  that  he  was  not  deceiving  himself  about  her. 
However,  to  strengthen  herself  in  every  way  with  him 
was  obviously  the  wisest  effort  she  could  make.  So, 
she  must  have  a  new  dress  for  the  next  meeting,  one 
which  would  make  him  better  pleased  to  take  her  out 

287 


SUSAN   LENOX 


to  dinner.  True,  if  she  came  in  rags,  he  would  not  be 
disturbed — for  he  had  nothing-  of  the  snob  in  him. 
But  at  the  same  time,  if  she  came  dressed  like  a  woman 
of  his  own  class,  he  would  be  impressed.  "He's  a  man, 
if  he  is  a  genius,"  reasoned  she. 

Vital  though  the  matter  was,  she  calculated  that  she 
did  not  dare  spend  more  than  twenty-five  dollars  on  this 
toilet.  She  must  put  by  some  of  her  forty  a  week; 
Brent  might  give  her  up  at  any  time,  and  she  must 
not  be  in  the  position  of  having  to  choose  immediately 
between  submitting  to  the  slavery  of  the  kept  woman 
as  Spenser's  dependent  and  submitting  to  the  costly 
and  dangerous  and  repulsive  freedom  of  the  woman  of 
the  streets.  Thus,  to  lay  out  twenty-five  dollars  on  a 
single  costume  was  a  wild  extravagance.  She  thought 
it  over  from  every  point  of  view;  she  decided  that  she 
must  take  the  risk. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  walked  for  an  hour  in  Fifth 
Avenue.  After  some  hesitation  she  ventured  into  the 
waiting-  and  dressing-rooms  of  several  fashionable 
hotels.  She  was  in  search  of  ideas  for  the  dress,  which 
must  be  in  the  prevailing  fashion.  She  had  far  too 
good  sense  and  good  taste  to  attempt  to  be  wholly 
original  in  dress ;  she  knew  that  the  woman  who  under 
stands  her  business  does  not  try  to  create  a  fashion 
but  uses  the  changing  and  capricious  fashion  as  the 
means  to  express  a  constant  and  consistent  style  of  her 
own.  She  appreciated  her  limitations  in  such  matters 
— how  far  she  as  yet  was  from  the  knowledge  necessary 
to  forming  a  permanent  and  self-expressive  style.  She 
was  prepared  to  be  most  cautious  in  giving  play  to  an 
individual  taste  so  imperfectly  educated  as  hers  had 
necessarily  been. 

She  felt  that  she  had  the  natural  instinct  for  the 
238 


SUSAN   LENOX 


best  and  could  recognize  it  on  sight — an  instinct  with 
out  which  no  one  can  go  a  step  forward  in  any  of  the 
arts.  She  had  long  since  learned  to  discriminate  among 
the  vast  masses  of  offering,  most  of  them  tasteless  or 
commonplace,  to  select  the  rare  and  few  things  that 
have  merit.  Thus,  she  had  always  stood  out  in  the 
tawdrily  or  drearily  or  fussily  dressed  throngs,  had 
been  a  pleasure  to  the  eyes  even  of  those  who  did  not 
know  why  they  were  pleased.  On  that  momentous  day, 
she  finally  saw  a  woman  dressed  in  admirable  taste  wha 
was  wearing  a  costume  simple  enough  for  her  to  venture 
to  think  of  copying  the  main  points.  She  walked  sev 
eral  blocks  a  few  yards  behind  this  woman,  then  hurried 
ahead  of  her,  turned  and  walked  toward  her  to  inspect 
the  front  of  the  dress.  She  repeated  this  several  times 
between  the  St.  Regis  and  Sherry's.  The  woman  soon 
realized,  as  women  always  do,  what  the  girl  in  the 
shirtwaist  and  short  skirt  was  about.  But  she  hap 
pened  to  be  a  good-natured  person,  and  smiled  pleas 
antly  at  Susan,  and  got  in  return  a  smile  she  probably 
did  not  soon  forget. 

The  next  morning  Susan  went  shopping.  She  had 
it  in  mind  to  get  the  materials  for  a  costume  of  a 
certain  delicate  shade  of  violet.  A  dress  of  that  shade, 
and  a  big  hat  trimmed  in  tulle  to  match  or  to  har 
monize,  with  a  bunch  of  silk  violets  fastened  in  the 
tulle  in  a  certain  way. 

Susan  knew  she  had  good  looks,  knew  what  was  be 
coming  to  her  darkly  and  softly  fringed  violet  eyes, 
pallid  skin,  to  her  rather  tall  figure,  slender,  not  volup 
tuous  yet  suggesting  voluptuousness.  She  could  see 
herself  in  that  violet  costume.  But  when  she  began  to 
look  at  materials  she  hesitated.  The  violet  would  be 
beautiful;  but  it  was  not  a  wise  investment  for  a  girl 

289 


SUSAN   LENOX 


with  few  clothes,  with  but  one  best  dress.  She  did  not 
give  it  up  definitely,  however,  until  she  came  upon  a 
sixteen-yard  remnant  of  soft  gray  China  crepe.  Gray 
was  a  really  serviceable  color  for  the  best  dress  of  a 
girl  of  small  means.  And  this  remnant,  certainly 
enough  for  a  dress,  could  be  had  for  ten  dollars,  where 
violet  China  crepe  of  the  shade  she  wanted  would  cost 
her  a  dollar  a  yard.  She  took  the  remnant. 

She  went  to  the  millinery  department  and  bought  a 
large  hat  frame.  It  was  of  a  good  shape  and  she  saw 
how  it  could  be  bent  to  suit  her  face.  She  paid  fifty 
cents  for  this,  and  two  dollars  and  seventy  cents  for 
four  yards  of  gray  tulle.  She  found  that  silk  flowers 
were  beyond  her  means ;  so  she  took  a  bunch  of  present 
able  looking  violets  of  the  cheaper  kind  at  two  dollars 
and  a  half.  She  happened  to  pass  a  counter  whereon 
were  displayed  bargains  in  big  buckles  and  similar  odds 
and  ends  of  steel  and  enamel.  She  fairly  pounced  upon 
a  handsome  gray  buckle  with  violet  enamel,  which  cost 
but  eighty-nine  cents.  For  a  pair  of  gray  suede  ties 
she  paid  two  dollars ;  for  a  pair  of  gray  silk  stockings, 
ninety  cents.  These  matters,  with  some  gray  silk  net  for 
the  collar,  gray  silk  for  a  belt,  linings  and  the  like, 
made  her  total  bill  twenty-three  dollars  and  sixty-seven 
cents.  She  returned  home  content  and  studied  "Caval- 
leria"  until  her  purchases  arrived. 

Spenser  was  out  now,  was  working  all  day  and  in  the 
evenings  at  Sperry's  office  high  up  in  the  Times  Build 
ing.  So,  Susan  had  freedom  for  her  dressmaking  op 
erations.  To  get  them  off  her  mind  that  she  might 
work  uninterruptedly  at  learning  Lola's  part  in  "Caval- 
leria,"  she  toiled  all  Saturday,  far  into  Sunday  morn 
ing,  was  astir  before  Spenser  waked,  finished  the  dress 
soon  after  breakfast  and  the  hat  by  the  middle  of  the 

290 


SUSAN   LENOX 


afternoon.  When  Spenser  returned  from  Sperry's  of 
fice  to  take  her  to  dinner,  she  was  arrayed.  For  the 
first  time  he  saw  her  in  fashionable  attire  and  it  was 
really  fashionable,  for  despite  all  her  disadvantages 
she,  who  had  real  and  rare  capacity  for  learning,  had 
educated  herself  well  in  the  chief  business  of  woman 
the  man-catcher  in  her  years  in  New  York. 

He  stood  rooted  to  the  threshold.  It  would  have 
justified  a  vanity  less  vigorous  than  Susan  or  any 
other  normal  human  being  possessed,  to  excite  such  a 
look  as  was  in  his  eyes.  He  drew  a  long  breath  by 
way  of  breaking  the  spell  over  speech. 

"You  are  beautiful!'9  he  exclaimed. 

And  his  eyes  traveled  from  the  bewitching  hat,  set 
upon  her  head  coquettishly  yet  without  audacity,  to 
the  soft  crepe  dress,  its  round  collar  showing  her  per 
fect  throat,  its  graceful  lines  subtly  revealing  her  allur 
ing  figure,  to  the  feet  that  men  always  admired,  what 
ever  else  of  beauty  or  charm  they  might  fail  to  realize. 

"How  you  have  grown !"  he  ejaculated.  Then,  "How 
did  you  do  it?" 

"By  all  but  breaking  myself." 

"It's  worth  whatever  it  cost.  If  I  had  a  dress  suit, 
we'd  go  to  Sherry's  or  the  Waldorf.  I'm  willing  to  go, 
without  the  dress  suit." 

"No.    I've  got  everything  ready  for  dinner  at  home." 

"Then,  why  on  earth  did  you  dress?  To  give  me  a 
treat?" 

"Oh,  I  hate  to  go  out  in  a  dress  I've  never  worn. 
And  a  woman  has  to  wear  a  hat  a  good  many  times 
before  she  knows  how." 

"What  a  lot  of  fuss  you  women  do  make  about 
clothes." 

"You  seem  to  like  it,  all  the  same." 
291 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Of  course.    But  it's  a  trifle." 

"It  has  got  many  women  a  good  provider  for  life. 
And  not  paying  attention  to  dress  or  not  knowing  how 
has  made  most  of  the  old  maids.  Are  those  things 
trifles?" 

Spenser  laughed  and  shifted  his  ground  without  any 
sense  of  having  been  pressed  to  do  so.  "Men  are  fools 
where  women  are  concerned." 

"Or  women  are  wise  where  men  are  concerned." 

"I  guess  they  do  know  their  business — some  of  them," 
he  confessed.  "Still,  it's  a  silly  business,  you  must 
admit." 

"Nothing  is  silly  that's  successful,"  said  Susan. 

"Depends  on  what  you  mean  by  success,"  argued  he. 

"Success  is  getting  what  you  want." 

"Provided  one  wants  what's  worth  while,"  said  he. 

"And  what's  worth  while?"  rejoined  she.  "Why, 
whatever  one  happens  to  want." 

To  avoid  any  possible  mischance  to  the  grande  toi 
lette  he  served  the  dinner  and  did  the  dangerous  part 
of  the  clearing  up.  They  went  to  the  theater,  Rod 
enjoying  even  more  than  she  the  very  considerable  ad 
miration  she  got.  When  she  was  putting  the  dress 
away  carefully  that  night,  Rod  inquired  when  he  was 
to  be  treated  again. 

"Oh— I  don't  know,"  replied  she.     "Not  soon." 

She  was  too  wise  to  tell  him  that  the  dress  would  not 
be  worn  again  until  Brent  was  to  see  it.  The  hat  she 
took  out  of  the  closet  from  time  to  time  and  experi 
mented  with  it,  reshaping  the  brim,  studying  the  dif 
ferent  effects  of  different  angles.  It  delighted  Spenser 
to  catch  her  at  this  "foolishness";  he  felt  so  superior, 
and  with  his  incurable  delusion  of  the  shallow  that 
dress  is  an  end,  not  merely  a  means,  he  felt  more  confi- 

292 


SUSAN  LENOX 


dent  than  ever  of  being  able  to  hold  her  when  he  should 
have  the  money  to  buy  her  what  her  frivolous  and 
feminine  nature  evidently  craved  beyond  all  else  in  the 

world.     But 

When  he  bought  a  ready-to-wear  evening  suit,  he 
made  more  stir  about  it  than  had  Susan  about  her  cos 
tume — this,  when  dress  to  him  was  altogether  an  end 
in  itself  and  not  a  shrewd  and  useful  means.  He  spent 
more  time  in  admiring  himself  in  it  before  the  mirror, 
and  looked  at  it,  and  at  himself  in  it,  with  far  more 
admiration  and  no  criticism  at  all.  Susan  noted  this 
— and  after  the  manner  of  women  who  are  wise  or  in 
different — or  both — she  made  no  comment. 
« 

At  the  studio  floor  of  Brent's  house  the  door  of  the 
elevator  was  opened  for  Susan  by  a  small  young  man 
with  a  notably  large  head,  bald  and  bulging.  His  big 
smooth  face  had  the  expression  of  extreme  amiability 
that  usually  goes  with  weakness  and  timidity.  "I  am 
Mr.  Brent's  secretary,  Mr.  Garvey,"  he  explained.  And 
Susan — made  as  accurate  as  quick  in  her  judgments  of 
character  by  the  opportunities  and  the  necessities  of 
her  experience — saw  that  she  had  before  her  one  of 
those  nice  feeble  folk  who  either  get  the  shelter  of  some 
strong  personality  as  a  bird  hides  from  the  storm  in 
the  thick  branches  of  a  great  tree  or  are  tossed  and 
torn  and  ruined  by  life  and  exist  miserably  until  res 
cued  by  death.  She  knew  the  type  well ;  it  had  been  the 
dominant  type  in  her  surroundings  ever  since  she  left 
Sutherland.  Indeed,  is  it  not  the  dominant  type  in  the 
whole  ill-equipped,  sore-tried  human  race?  And  does 
it  not  usually  fail  of  recognition  because  so  many  of 
us  who  are  in  fact  weak,  look — and  feel — strong  be 
cause  we  are  sheltered  by  inherited  money  or  by  power- 

293 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ful  friends  or  relatives  or  by  chance  lodgment  in  a 
nook  unvisited  of  the  high  winds  of  life  in  the  open? 
Susan  liked  Garvey  at  once ;  they  exchanged  smiles  and 
were  friends. 

She  glanced  round  the  room.  At  the  huge  open 
window  Brent,  his  back  to  her,  was  talking  earnestly 
to  a  big  hatchet-faced  man  with  a  black  beard.  Even 
as  Susan  glanced  Brent  closed  the  interview;  with  an 
emphatic  gesture  of  fist  into  palm  he  exclaimed,  "And 
that's  final.  Good-by."  The  two  men  came  toward 
her,  both  bowed,  the  hatchet-faced  man  entered  the 
elevator  and  was  gone.  Brent  extended  his  hand  with 
a  smile. 

"You  evidently  didn't  come  to  work  today,"  said  he 
with  a  careless,  fleeting  glance  at  the  grande  toilette. 
"But  we  are  prepared  against  such  tricks.  Garvey, 
take  her  down  to  the  rear  dressing-room  and  have  the 
maid  lay  her  out  a  simple  costume."  To  Susan,  "Be 
as  quick  as  you  can."  And  he  seated  himself  at  his 
desk  and  was  reading  and  signing  letters. 

Susan,  crestfallen,  followed  Garvey  down  the  stair 
way.  She  had  confidently  expected  that  he  would  show 
some  appreciation  of  her  toilette.  She  knew  she  had 
never  in  her  life  looked  so  well.  In  the  long  glass  in 
the  dressing-room,  while  Garvey  was  gone  to  send  the 
maid,  she  inspected  herself  again.  Yes — never  anything 
like  so  well.  And  Brent  had  noted  her  appearance  only 
to  condemn  it.  She  was  always  telling  herself  that  she 
wished  him  to  regard  her  as  a  working  woman,  a  pupil 
in  stagecraft.  But  now  that  she  had  proof  that  he 
did  so  regard  her,  she  was  depressed,  resentful.  How 
ever,  this  did  not  last  long.  While  she  was  changing 
to  linen  skirt  and  shirtwaist,  she  began  to  laugh  at 
herself.  How  absurd  she  had  been,  thinking  to  impress 

294 


SUSAN  LENOX 


this  man  who  had  known  so  many  beautiful  women,  who 
must  have  been  satiated  long  ago  with  beauty — she 
thinking  to  create  a  sensation  in  such  a  man,  with  a 
simple  little  costume  of  her  own  crude  devising.  She 
reappeared  in  the  studio,  laughter  in  her  eyes  and 
upon  her  lips.  Brent  apparently  did  not  glance  at  her; 
yet  he  said,  "What's  amusing  you?" 

She  confessed  all,  on  one  of  her  frequent  impulses 
to  candor — those  impulses  characteristic  both  of  weak 
natures  unable  to  exercise  self-restraint  and  of  strong 
natures,  indifferent  to  petty  criticism  and  misunder 
standing,  and  absent  from  vain  mediocrity,  which  al 
ways  has  itself — that  is,  appearances — on  its  mind. 
She  described  in  amusing  detail  how  she  had  planned 
and  got  together  the  costume — how  foolish  his  recep 
tion  of  it  had  made  her  feel.  "I've  no  doubt  you 
guessed  what  was  in  my  head,"  concluded  she.  "You 
see  everything." 

"I  did  notice  that  you  were  looking  unusually  well, 
and  that  you  felt  considerably  set  up  over  it,"  said  he. 
"But  why  not?  Vanity's  an  excellent  thing.  Like 
everything  else  it's  got  to  be  used,  not  misused.  It  can 
help  us  to  learn  instead  of  preventing.'* 

"I  had  an  excuse  for  dressing  up,"  she  reminded 
him.  "You  said  we  were  to  dine  together.  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  want  there  to  be  too  much  contrast  be 
tween  us.  Next  time  I'll  be  more  sensible." 

"Dress  as  you  like — for  the  present,"  said  he.  "You 
can  always  change  here.  Later  on  dress  will  be  one 
of  the  main  things,  of  course.  But  not  now.  Have 
you  learned  the  part?" 

And  they  began.  She  saw  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  a  platform  about  the  height  of  a  stage.  He  ex 
plained  that  Garvey,  with  the  book  of  the  play,  would 

295 


SUSAN   LENOX 


take  the  other  parts  in  Lola's  scenes,  and  sent  them 
both  to  the  stage.  "Don't  be  nervous,"  Garvey  said 
to  her  in  an  undertone.  "He  doesn't  expect  anything 
of  you.  This  is  simply  to  get  started."  But  she  could 
not  suppress  the  trembling  in  her  legs  and  arms,  the 
hysterical  contractions  of  her  throat.  However,  she- 
did  contrive  to  go  through  the  part — Garvey  prompt 
ing.  She  knew  she  was  ridiculous ;  she  could  not  carry 
out  a  single  one  of  the  ideas  of  "business"  which  had 
come  to  her  as  she  studied ;  she  was  awkward,  inarticu 
late,  panic-stricken. 

"Rotten!"  exclaimed  Brent,  when  she  had  finished. 
"Couldn't  be  worse — therefore,  couldn't  be  better." 

She  dropped  to  a  chair  and  sobbed  hysterically. 

"That's  right — cry  it  out,"  said  Brent.  "Leave  us 
alone,  Garvey." 

Brent  walked  up  and  down  smoking  until  she  lifted 
her  head  and  glanced  at  him  with  a  pathetic  smile. 
"Take  a  cigarette,"  he  suggested.  "We'll  talk  it  over. 
Now,  we've  got  something  to  talk  about." 

She  found  relief  from  her  embarrassment  in  the  ciga 
rette.  "You  can  laugh  at  me  now,"  she  said.  "I 
shan't  mind.  In  fact,  I  didn't  mind,  though  I  thought 
I  did.  If  I  had,  I'd  not  have  let  you  see  me  cry." 

"Don't  think  I'm  discouraged,"  said  Brent.  "The 
reverse.  You  showed  that  you  have  nerve — a  very 
different  matter  from  impudence.  Impudence  fails 
when  it's  most  needed.  Nerve  makes  one  hang  on,  re 
gardless.  In  such  a  panic  as  yours  was,  the  average 
girl  would  have  funked  absolutely.  You  stuck  it  out. 
Now,  you  and  I  will  try  Lola's  first  entrance.  No, 
don't  throw  away  your  cigarette.  Lola  might  well 
come  in  smoking  a  cigarette." 

She  did  better.  What  Burlingham  had  once  thor- 
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SUSAN  LENOX 


oughly  drilled  into  her  now  stood  her  in  good  stead,  and 
Brent's  sympathy  and  enthusiasm  gave  her  the  stimu 
lating  sense  that  he  and  she  were  working  together. 
They  spent  the  afternoon  on  the  one  thing — Lola 
coming  on,  singing  her  gay  song,  her  halt  at  sight  of 
Santuzza  and  Turiddu,  her  look  at  Santuzza,  at 
Turiddw,  her  greeting  for  each.  They  tried  it  twenty 
different  ways.  They  discussed  what  would  have  been 
in  the  minds  of  all  three.  They  built  up  "business"  for 
Lola,  and  for  the  two  others  to  increase  the  significance 
of  Lola's  actions. 

"As  I've  already  told  you,"  said  he,  "anyone  with  a 
voice  and  a  movable  body  can  learn  to  act.  There's 
no  question  about  your  becoming  a  good  actress.  But 
it'll  be  some  time  before  I  can  tell  whether  you  can  be 
what  I  hope — an  actress  who  shows  no  sign  that  she's 
acting." 

Susan  showed  the  alarm  she  felt.  "I'm  afraid  you'll 
find  at  the  end  that  you've  been  wasting  your  time," 
said  she. 

"Put  it  straight  out  of  your  head,"  replied  he.  "I 
never  waste  time.  To  live  is  to  learn.  Already  you've 
given  me  a  new  play — don't  forget  that.  In  a  month 
I'll  have  it  ready  for  us  to  use.  Besides,  in  teaching 
you  I  teach  myself.  Hungry?" 

"No — that  is,  yes.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,  but  I'm 
starved." 

"This  sort  of  thing  gives  one  an  appetite  like  a  field 
hand."  He  accompanied  her  to  the  door  of  the  rear 
dressing-room  on  the  floor  below.  "Go  down  to  the 
reception  room  when  you're  ready,"  said  he,  as  he  left 
her  to  go  on  to  his  own  suite  to  change  his  clothes. 
"I'll  be  there." 

The  maid  came  immediately,  drew  a  bath  for  her, 
297 


SUSAN  LENOX 


afterward  helped  her  to  dress.  It  was  Susan's  first 
experience  with  a  maid,  her  first  realization  how  much 
time  and  trouble  one  saves  oneself  if  free  from  the 
routine,  menial  things.  And  then  and  there  a  maid  was 
set  down  upon  her  secret  list  of  the  luxurious  comforts 
to  which  she  would  treat  herself — when?  The  craving 
for  luxury  is  always  a  part,  usually  a  powerful  part, 
of  an  ambitious  temperament.  Ambition  is  simply  a 
variously  manifested  and  variously  directed  impulse 
toward  improvement — a  discomfort  so  keen  that  it 
compels  effort  to  change  to  a  position  less  uncomfort 
able.  There  had  never  been  a  time  when  luxury  had 
not  attracted  her.  At  the  slightest  opportunity  she 
had  always  pushed  out  for  luxuries — for  better  food, 
better  clothing,  more  agreeable  surroundings.  Even  in 
her  worst  hours  of  discouragement  she  had  not  really 
relaxed  in  the  struggle  against  rags  and  dirt.  And 
when  moral  horror  had  been  blunted  by  custom  and 
drink,  physical  horror  had  remained  acute.  For,  hu 
man  nature  being  a  development  upward  through  the 
physical  to  the  spiritual,  when  a  process  of  degenera 
tion  sets  in,  the  topmost  layers,  the  spiritual,  wear 
away  first — then  those  in  which  the  spiritual  is  a  larger 
ingredient  than  the  material — then  those  in  which  the 
material  is  the  larger — and  last  of  all  those  that  are 
purely  material.  As  life  educated  her,  as  her  intelli 
gence  and  her  knowledge  grew,  her  appreciation  of 
luxury  had  grown  apace — and  her  desire  for  it.  With 
most  human  beings,  the  imagination  is  a  heavy  bird  of 
feeble  wing;  it  flies  low,  seeing  only  the  things  of  the 
earth.  When  they  describe  heaven,  it  has  houses  of 
marble  and  streets  of  gold.  Their  pretense  to  sight 
of  higher  things  is  either  sheer  pretense  or  sight  at 
second  hand.  Susan  was  of  the  few  whose  fancy  can 

298 


SUSAN  LENOX 


soar.  She  saw  the  earthy  things;  she  saw  the  things 
of  the  upper  regions  also.  And  she  saw  the  lower  re 
gion  from  the  altitudes  of  the  higher — and  in  their 
perspective. 

As  she  and  Brent  stood  together  on  the  sidewalk  be 
fore  his  house,  about  to  enter  his  big  limousine,  his 
smile  told  her  that  he  had  read  her  thought — her  desire 
for  such  an  automobile  as  her  very  own.  "I  can't  help 
it,"  said  she.  "It's  my  nature  to  want  these  things." 

"And  to  want  them  intelligently,"  said  he.  "Every 
body  wants,  but  only  the  few  want  intelligently — and 
they  get.  The  three  worst  things  in  the  world  are 
sickness,  poverty  and  obscurity.  Your  splendid  health 
safeguards  you  against  sickness.  Your  looks  and  your 
brains  can  carry  you  far  away  from  the  other  two. 
Your  one  danger  is  of  yielding  to  the  temptation  to 
become  the  wife  or  the  mistress  of  some  rich  man.  The 
prospect  of  several  years  of  heart-breaking  hard  work 
isn't  wildly  attractive  at  twenty- two." 

"You  don't  know  rne,"  said  Susan — but  the  boast  was 
uttered  under  her  breath. 

The  auto  rushed  up  to  Delmonico's  entrance,  came  to 
a  halt  abruptly  yet  gently.  The  attentiveness  of  the 
personnel,  the  staring  and  whispering  of  the  people  in 
the  palm  room  showed  how  well  known  Brent  was. 
There  were  several  women — handsome  women  of  what 
is  called  the  New  York  type,  though  it  certainly  does 
not  represent  the  average  New  York  woman,  who  is 
poorly  dressed  in  flimsy  ready-made  clothes  and  has 
the  mottled  skin  that  indicates  bad  food  and  too  little 
sleep.  These  handsome  women  were  dressed  beautifully 
as  well  as  expensively,  in  models  got  in — not  from — 
Paris.  One  of  them  smiled  sweetly  at  Brent,  who  re 
sponded,  so  Susan  thought,  rather  formally.  She  felt 

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SUSAN   LENOX 


dowdy  in  her  home-made  dress.  All  her  pride  in  it 
vanished ;  she  saw  only  its  defects.  And  the  gracefully 
careless  manner  of  these  women — the  manners  of  those 
who  feel  sure  of  themselves — made  her  feel  "green"  and 
out  of  place.  She  was  disgusted  with  the  folly  that 
had  caused  her  to  thrill  with  pleasure  when  his  order  to 
his  chauffeur  at  his  door  told  her  she  was  actually  to 
be  taken  to  one  of  the  restaurants  in  which  she  had 
wished  to  exhibit  herself  with  him.  She  heartily  wished 
she  had  insisted  on  going  where  she  would  have  been  as 
well  dressed  and  as  much  at  home  as  anyone  there. 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  to  distract  her  mind  from  these 
depressing  sensations.  Brent  was  looking  at  her  with 
that  amused,  mocking  yet  sympathetic  expression  which 
was  most  characteristic  of  him.  She  blushed  furiously. 

He  laughed.  "No,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  your  home 
made  dress,"  said  he.  "I  don't  care  what  is  thought  of 
me  by  people  who  don't  give  me  any  money.  And, 
anyhow,  you  are  easily  the  most  unusual  looking  and 
the  most  tastefully  dressed  woman  here.  The  rest  of 
these  women  are  doomed  for  life  to  commonplace  ob 
scurity.  You 

"We'll  see  your  name  in  letters  of  fire  on  the  Broad 
way  temples  of  fame." 

"I  know  you're  half  laughing  at  me,"  said  Susan. 
"But  I  feel  a  little  better." 

"Then  I'm  accomplishing  my  object.  Let's  not  think 
about  ourselves.  That  makes  life  narrow.  Let's  keep 
the  thoughts  on  our  work — on  the  big  splendid 
dreams  that  come  to  us  and  invite  us  to  labor  and  to 
dare." 

And  as  they  lingered  over  the  satisfactory  dinner 
he  had  ordered,  they  talked  of  acting — of  the  different 
roles  of  "Cavalleria"  as  types  of  fundamental  instincts 

300 


SUSAN  LENOX 


and  actions — of  how  best  to  express  those  meanings — 
how  to  fill  out  the  skeletons  of  the  dramatist  into  per 
sonalities  actual  and  vivid.  Susan  forgot  where  she 
was,  forgot  to  be  reserved  with  him.  In  her  and  Rod's 
happiest  days  she  had  never  been  free  from  the  con 
straint  of  his  and  her  own  sense  of  his  great  superiority. 
With  Brent,  such  trifles  of  the  petty  personal  disap 
peared.  And  she  talked  more  naturally  than  she  had 
since  a  girl  at  her  uncle's  at  Sutherland.  She  was 
amazed  by  the  fountain  that  had  suddenly  gushed  forth 
in  her  mind  at  the  conjuring  of  Brent's  sympathy.  She 
did  not  recognize  herself  in  this  person  so  open  to  ideas, 
so  eager  to  learn,  so  clear  in  the  expression  of  her 
thoughts.  Not  since  the  Burlingham  days  had  she 
spent  so  long  a  time  with  a  man  in  absolute  uncon 
sciousness  of  sex. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  intrusion  of  a  fash 
ionable  young  man  with  the  expression  of  assurance 
which  comes  from  the  possession  of  wealth  and  the 
knowledge  that  money  will  buy  practically  every 
thing  and  everybody.  Brent  received  him  so  coldly 
that,  after  a  smooth  sentence  or  two,  he  took  himself 
off  stammering  and  in  confusion.  "I  suppose,"  said 
Brent  when  he  was  gone,  "that  young  ass  hoped  I 
would  introduce  him  to  you  and  invite  him  to  sit.  But 
you'll  be  tempted  often  enough  in  the  next  few  years 
by  rich  men  without  my  helping  to  put  temptation  in 
your  way." 

"I've  never  been  troubled  thus  far,"  laughed  Susan. 

"But  you  will,  now.  You  have  developed  to  the 
point  where  everyone  will  soon  be  seeing  what  it  took 
expert  eyes  to  see  heretofore." 

"If  I  am  tempted,"  said  Susan,  "do  you  think  I'll 
be  able  to  resist?" 

301 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Brent.  "You  have  a 
strong  sense  of  honesty,  and  that'll  keep  you  at  work 
with  me  for  a  while.  Then 

"If  you  have  it  in  you  to  be  great,  you'll  go  on.  If 
you're  merely  the  ordinary  woman,  a  little  more  intel 
ligent,  you'll  probably — sell  out.  All  the  advice  I  have 
to  offer  is,  don't  sell  cheap.  As  you're  not  hampered 
by  respectability  or  by  inexperience,  you  needn't."  He 
reflected  a  moment,  then  added,  "And  if  you  ever  do 
decide  that  you  don't  care  to  go  on  with  a  career,  tell 
me  frankly.  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  in  the  other 
direction." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Susan,  her  strange  eyes  fixed  upon 
him. 

"Why  do  you  put  so  much  gratitude  in  your  tone 
and  in  your  eyes?"  asked  he. 

"I  didn't  put  it  there,"  she  answered.  "It — just 
came.  And  I  was  grateful  because — well,  I'm  human, 
you  know,  and  it  was  good  to  feel — that — that " 

"Go  on,"  said  he,  as  she  hesitated. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  misunderstand." 

"What  does  it  matter,  if  I  do?" 

"Well — you've  acted  toward  me  as  if  I  were  a  mere 
machine  that  you  were  experimenting  with." 

"And  so  you  are." 

"I  understand  that.  But  when  you  offered  to  help 
me,  if  I  happened  to  want  to  do  something  different 
from  what  you  want  me  to  do,  it  made  me  feel  that  you 
thought  of  me  as  a  human  being,  too." 

The  expression  of  his  unseeing  eyes  puzzled  her.  She 
became  much  embarrassed  when  he  said,  "Are  you  dis 
satisfied  with  Spenser?  Do  you  want  to  change  lovers? 
Are  you  revolving  me  as  a  possibility?" 

"I  haven't  forgotten  what  you  said,"  she  protested. 
302 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"But  a  few  words  from  me  wouldn't  change  you 
from  a  woman  into  a  sexless  ambition." 

An  expression  of  wistful  sadness  crept  into  the  vio 
let-gray  eyes,  in  contrast  to  the  bravely  smiling  lips. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  birth  that  had  condemned  her 
to  that  farmer  Ferguson,  full  as  much  as  of  the  life 
of  the  streets,  when  she  said: 

"I  know  that  a  man  like  you  wouldn't  care  for  a 
woman  of  my  sort." 

"If  I  were  you,"  said  he  gently,  "I'd  not  say  those 
things  about  myself.  Saying  them  encourages  you 
to  think  them.  And  thinking  them  gives  you  a  false 
point  of  view.  You  must  learn  to  appreciate  that 
you're  not  a  sheltered  woman,  with  reputation  for 
virtue  as  your  one  asset,  the  thing  that'll  enable  you 
to  get  some  man  to  undertake  your  support.  You 
are  dealing  with  the  world  as  a  man  deals  with  it. 
You  must  demand  and  insist  that  the  world  deal  with 
you  on  that  basis." 

There  came  a  wonderful  look  of  courage  and  hope 
into  the  eyes  of  Lorella's  daughter. 

"And  the  world  will,"  he  went  on.  "At  least,  the 
only  part  of  it  that's  important  to  you." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  way?"  asked  Susan, 
earnestly. 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter  whether  I  do  or 
not,"  laughed  he.  "Don't  bother  about  what  I  think 
— what  anyone  thinks — of  you.  The  point  here,  as 
always,  is  that  you  believe  it,  yourself.  There's 
no  reason  why  a  woman  who  is  making  a  career 
should  not  be  virtuous.  She  will^  probably  not  get 
far  if  she  isn't  more  or  less  so.  Dissipation  doesn't 
help  man  or  woman,  especially  the  ruinous  dissi 
pation  of  license  in  passion.  On  the  other  hand,  no 


SUSAN  LENOX 


woman  can  ever  hope  to  make  a  career  who  persists 
in  narrowing  and  cheapening  herself  with  the  notion 
that  her  virtue  is  her  all.  She'll  not  amount  to 
much  as  a  worker  in  the  fields  of  action." 

Susan  reflected,  sighed.  "It's  very,  very  hard  to 
get  rid  of  one's  sex." 

"It's  impossible,"  declared  he.  "Don't  try.  But 
don't  let  it  worry  you,  either." 

"Everyone  can't  be  as  strong  as  you  are — so  ab 
sorbed  in  a  career  that  they  care  for  nothing  else." 

This  amused  him.  With  forearms  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  he  turned  his  cigarette  slowly  round  be 
tween  his  fingers,  watching  the  smoke  curl  up  from  it. 
She  observed  that  there  was  more  than  a  light 
sprinkle  of  gray  in  his  thick,  carefully  brushed  hair. 
She  was  filled  with  curiosity  as  to  the  thoughts  just 
then  in  that  marvelous  brain  of  his ;  nor  did  it  lessen 
her  curiosity  to  know  that  never  would  those  thoughts 
be  revealed  to  her.  What  women  had  he  loved? 
What  women  had  loved  him?  What  follies  had  he 
committed?  From  how  many  sources  he  must  have 
gathered  his  knowledge  of  human  nature — of  woman 
nature !  And  no  doubt  he  was  still  gathering.  What 
woman  was  it  now? 

When  he  lifted  his  glance  from  the  cigarette,  it  was 
to  call  the  waiter  and  get  the  bill.  "I've  a  supper  en 
gagement,"  he  said,  "and  it's  nearly  eleven  o'clock." 

"Eleven  o'clock!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Time  does  fly — doesn't  it — when  a  man  and  a 
woman,  each  an  unexplored  mystery  to  the  other,  are 
dining  alone  and  talking  about  themselves." 

"It  was  my  fault,"  said   Susan. 

His  quizzical  eyes  looked  into  hers — uncomfortably 
far. 

304 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  flushed.  "You  make  me  feel  guiltier  than  I  am," 
she  protested,  under  cover  of  laughing  glance  and  tone 
of  raillery. 

"Guilty?    Of  what?" 

"You  think  I've  been  trying  to — to  'encourage'  you," 
replied  she  frankly. 

"And  why  shouldn't  you,  if  you  feel  so  inclined?" 
laughed  he.  "That  doesn't  compel  me  to  be — en 
couraged." 

"Honestly  I  haven't,"  said  she,  the  contents  of  seri 
ousness  still  in  the  gay  wrapper  of  raillery.  "At  least 
not  any  more  than " 

"You  know,  a  woman  feels  bound  to  'encourage'  a 
man  who  piques  her  by  seeming — difficult." 

"Naturally,  you'd  not  have  objected  to  baptizing 
the  new  hat  and  dress  with  my  heart's  blood."  She 
could  not  have  helped  laughing  with  him.  "Unfortu 
nately  for  you — or  rather  for  the  new  toilette — my 
poor  heart  was  bled  dry  long,  long  ago.  I'm  a  busy 
man,  too — busy  and  a  little  tired." 

"I  deserve  it  all,"  said  she.  "I've  brought  it  on 
myself.  And  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  I  started  the  subject. 
I've  found  out  you're  quite  human — and  that'll  help 
me  to  work  better." 

They  separated  with  the  smiling  faces  of  those  who 
have  added  an  evening  altogether  pleasant  to  memory's 
store  of  the  past's  happy  hours — that  roomy  store 
house  which  is  all  too  empty  even  where  the  life  has 
been  what  is  counted  happy.  He  insisted  on  sending 
her  home  in  his  auto,  himself  taking  a  taxi  to  the  Play 
ers'  where  the  supper  was  given.  The  moment  she  was 
alone  for  the  short  ride  home,  her  gayety  evaporated 
like  a  delicious  but  unstable  perfume. 

Why  ?  Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  girls  on  the 
305 


SUSAN  LENOX 


stroll.  Had  she  really  been  one  of  them? — and  only  a 
few  days  ago?  Impossible!  Not  she — not  the  real 
self  .  .  .  and  perhaps  she  would  be  back  there  with 
them  before  long.  No — never,  never,  in  any  circum 
stances!  ...  She  had  said,  "Never!"  the  first  time 
she  escaped  from  the  tenements,  yet  she  had  gone  back 
.  .  .  were  any  of  those  girls  strolling  along — were, 
again,  any  of  them  Freddie  Palmer's?  At  the  thought 
she  shivered  and  quailed.  She  had  not  thought  of  him, 
except  casually,  in  many  months.  What  if  he  should 
see  her,  should  still  feel  vengeful — he  who  never  forgot 
or  forgave — who  would  dare  anything !  And  she  would 
be  defenseless  against  him.  .  .  .  She  remembered  what 
she  had  last  read  about  him  in  the  newspaper.  He 
had  risen  in  the  world,  was  no  longer  in  the  criminal 
class  apparently,  had  moved  to  the  class  of  semi-crimi 
nal  wholly  respectable  contractor-politician.  No,  he 
had  long  since  forgotten  her,  vindictive  Italian  though 
he  was. 

The  auto  set  her  down  at  home.  Her  tremors  about 
Freddie  departed;  but  the  depression  remained.  She 
felt  physically  as  if  she  had  been  sitting  all  evening  in 
a  stuffy  room  with  a  dull  company  after  a  heavy,  badly 
selected  dinner.  She  fell  easy  prey  to  one  of  those  fits 
of  the  blues  to  which  all  imaginative  young  people  are 
at  least  occasional  victims,  and  by  which  those  cursed 
and  hampered  with  the  optimistic  temperament  are 
haunted  and  harassed  and  all  but  or  quite  undone. 
She  had  a  sense  of  failure,  of  having  made  a  bad  im 
pression.  She  feared  he,  recalling  and  reinspecting 
what  she  had  said,  would  get  the  idea  that  she  was 
not  in  earnest,  was  merely  looking  for  a  lover — for  a 
chance  to  lead  a  life  of  luxurious  irresponsibility. 
.Would  it  not  be  natural  for  him,  who  knew  women  well, 

306 


SUSAN   LENOX 


to  assume  from  her  mistakenly  candid  remarks,  that  she 
was  like  the  rest  of  the  women,  both  the  respectable 
and  the  free?  Why  should  he  believe  in  her,  when  she 
did  not  altogether  believe  in  herself  but  suspected  her 
self  of  a  secret  hankering  after  something  more  imme 
diate,  more  easy  and  more  secure  than  the  stage  career? 
The  longer  she  thought  of  it  the  clearer  it  seemed  to 
her  to  be  that  she  had  once  more  fallen  victim  to  too 
much  hope,  too  much  optimism,  too  much  and  too  ready 
belief  in  her  fellow-beings — she  who  had  suffered  so 
much  from  these  follies,  and  had  tried  so  hard  to  school 
herself  against  them. 

She  fought  this  mood  of  depression — fought  alone, 
for  Spenser  did  not  notice  and  she  would  not  annoy 
him.  She  slept  little  that  night;  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  hope  for  peace  until  she  had  seen  Brent  again. 


XVI 

TOWARD  half-past  ten  the  next  day,  a  few  min 
utes  after  Rod  left  for  the  theater,  she  was 
in  the  bathroom  cleaning  the  coffee  machine. 
There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room 
bedroom.  Into  such  disorder  had  her  mood  of  depres 
sion  worried  her  nerves  that  she  dropped  the  coffee 
machine  into  the  washbowl  and  jumped  as  if  she  were 
seeing  a  ghost.  Several  dire  calamities  took  vague 
shape  in  her  mind,  then  the  image  of  Freddie  Palmer, 
smiling  sweetly,  cruelly.  She  wavered  only  a  moment, 
went  to  the  door,  and  after  a  brief  hesitation  that  still 
further  depressed  her  about  herself  she  opened  it. 
The  maid — a  good-natured  sloven  who  had  become  de 
voted  to  Susan  because  she  gave  her  liberal  fees  and 
made  her  no  extra  work — was  standing  there,  in  an 
attitude  of  suppressed  excitement.  Susan  laughed,  for 
this  maid  was  a  born  agitator,  a  person  who  is  always 
trying  to  find  a  thrill  or  to  put  a  thrill  into  the  most 
trivial  event. 

"What  is  it  now,  Annie?"  Susan  asked. 

"Mr.  Spenser — he's  gone,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes — a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

Annie  drew  a  breath  of  deep  relief.  "I  was  sure  he 
had  went,"  said  she,  producing  from  under  her  apron 
a  note.  "I  saw  it  was  in  a  gentleman's  writing,  so  I 
didn't  come  up  with  it  till  he  was  out  of  the  way, 
though  the  boy  brought  it  a  little  after  nine." 

"Oh,  bother!"  exclaimed  Susan,  taking  the  note. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Spenser,  I've  had  my  lesson,"  replied 
308 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Annie,  apologetic  but  firm.  "When  I  first  came  to 
New  York,  green  as  the  grass  that  grows  along  the 
edge  of  the  spring,  what  does  I  do  but  go  to  work  and 
take  up  a  note  to  a  lady  when  her  husband  was  there ! 
Next  thing  I  knew  he  went  to  work  and  hauled  her 
round  the  floor  by  the  hair  and  skinned  out — yes,  beat 
it  for  good.  And  my  madam  says  to  me,  'Annie, 
you're  fired.  Never  give  a  note  to  a  lady  when  her 
gent  is  by  or  to  a  gent  when  his  lady's  by.  That's  the 
first  rule  of  life  in  gay  New  York.'  And  you  can  bet 
I  never  have  since — nor  never  will." 

Susan  had  glanced  at  the  address  on  the  note,  had 
recognized  the  handwriting  of  Brent's  secretary.  Her 
heart  had  straightway  sunk  as  if  the  foreboding  of 
calamity  had  been  realized.  As  she  stood  there  un 
certainly,  Annie  seized  the  opportunity  to  run  on  and 
on.  Susan  now  said  absently,  "Thank  you.  Very  well," 
and  closed  the  door.  It  was  a  minute  or  so  before  she 
tore  open  the  envelope  with  an  impatient  gesture  and 
read: 

DEAR  MRS.  SPENSER: 

Mr.  Brent  requests  me  to  ask  you  not  to  come  until  fur 
ther  notice.  It  may  be  sometime  before  he  will  be  free  to 
resume. 

Yours  truly, 

JOHN  C.  GARVEY. 

It  was  a  fair  specimen  of  Garvey's  official  style,  with 
which  she  had  become  acquainted — the  style  of  the  sec 
retary  who  has  learned  by  experience  not  to  use  frills 
or  flourishes  but  to  convey  his  message  in  the  fewest 
and  clearest  words.  Had  it  been  a  skillfully  worded 
insult  Susan,  in  this  mood  of  depression  and  distorted 
mental  vision,  could  not  have  received  it  differently. 

309 


SUSAN   LENOX 


She  dropped  to  a  chair  at  the  table  and  stared  at  the 
five  lines  of  neat  handwriting  until  her  eyes  became 
circled  and  her  face  almost  haggard.  Precisely  as  Rod 
had  described!  After  a  long,  long  time  she  crumpled 
the  paper  and  let  it  fall  into  the  waste-basket.  Then  she 
walked  up  and  down  the  room — presently  drifted  into 
the  bathroom  and  resumed  cleaning  the  coffee  machine. 
Every  few  moments  she  would  pause  in  the  task — and 
in  her  dressing  afterwards — would  be  seized  by  the 
fear,  the  horror  of  again  being  thrust  into  that  hideous 
underworld.  What  was  between  her  and  it,  to  save  her 
from  being  flung  back  into  its  degradation?  Two  men 
on  neither  of  whom  she  could  rely.  Brent  might  drop 
her  at  any  time — perhaps  had  already  dropped  her. 
As  for  Rod — vain,  capricious,  faithless,  certain  to  be 
come  an  unendurable  tyrant  if  he  got  her  in  his  power — 
Rod  was  even  less  of  a  necessity  than  Brent.  What  a 
dangerous  situation  was  hers  !  How  slender  her  chances 
of  escape  from  another  catastrophe.  She  leaned  against 
wall  or  table  and  was  shaken  by  violent  fits  of  shud 
dering.  She  felt  herself  slipping — slipping.  It  was 
all  she  could  do  to  refrain  from  crying  out.  In  those 
moments,  no  trace  of  the  self-possessed  Susan  the 
world  always  saw.  Her  fancy  went  mad  and  ran  wild. 
She  quivered  under  the  actuality  of  coarse  contacts — 
Mrs.  Tucker  in  bed  with  her — the  men  who  had  bought 
her  body  for  an  hour — the  vermin  of  the  tenements — 
the  brutal  hands  of  policemen. 

Then  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience  or  of  anger 
she  would  shake  herself  together  and  go  resolutely  on 
— only  again  to  relapse.  "Because  I  so  suddenly  cut 
off  the  liquor  and  the  opium,"  she  said.  It  was  the 
obvious  and  the  complete  explanation.  But  her  heart 
was  like  lead,  and  her  sky  like  ink.  This  note,  the 

310 


SUSAN  LENOX 


day  after  having  tried  her  out  as  a  possibility  for 
the  stage  and  as  a  woman.  She  stared  down  at  the 
crumpled  note  in  the  waste-basket.  That  note — it  was 
herself.  He  had  crumpled  her  up  and  thrown  her  into 
the  waste-basket,  where  she  no  doubt  belonged. 

It  was  nearly  noon  before  she,  dressed  with  uncon 
scious  care,  stood  in  the  street  doorway  looking  about 
uncertainly  as  if  she  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn. 
She  finally  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  theater  where 
Rod's  play  was  rehearsing.  She  had  gone  to  none  of 
the  rehearsals  because  Rod  had  requested  it.  "I  want 
you  to  see  it  as  a  total  surprise  the  first  night,"  ex 
plained  he.  "That'll  give  you  more  pleasure,  and  also 
it  will  make  your  criticism  more  valuable  to  us."  And 
she  had  acquiesced,  not  displeased  to  have  all  her  time 
for  her  own  affairs.  But  now  she,  dazed,  stunned  al 
most,  convinced  that  it  was  all  over  for  her  with  Brent, 
instinctively  turned  to  Rod  to  get  human  help — not  to 
ask  for  it,  but  in  the  hope  that  somehow  he  would  divine 
and  would  say  or  do  something  that  would  make  the 
way  ahead  a  little  less  forbidding — something  that 
would  hearten  her  for  the  few  first  steps,  anyhow.  She 
turned  back  several  times — now,  because  she  feared  Rod 
wouldn't  like  her  coming;  again  because  her  experience 

— enlightened  good  sense told  her  that  Rod  would 

— could — not  help  her,  that  her  sole  reliance  was  her 
self.  But  in  the  end,  driven  by  one  of  those  spasms  of 
terror  lest  the  underworld  should  be  about  to  engulf 
her  again,  she  stood  at  the  stage  door. 

As  she  was  about  to  negotiate  the  surly  looking  man 
on  guard  within,  Sperry  came  rushing  down  the  long 
dark  passageway.  He  was  brushing  past  her  when  he 
saw  who  it  was.  "Too  late!"  he  cried.  "Rehearsal's 


311 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  didn't  come  to  the  rehearsal,"  explained  Susan. 
"I  thought  perhaps  Rod  would  be  going  to  lunch." 

"So  he  is.  Go  straight  back.  You'll  find  him  on  the 
stage.  I'll  join  you  if  you'll  wait  a  minute  or  so." 
And  Sperry  hurried  on  into  the  street. 

Susan  advanced  along  the  passageway  cautiously  as 
it  was  but  one  remove  from  pitch  dark.  Perhaps  fifty 
feet,  and  she  came  to  a  cross  passage.  As  she  hesi 
tated,  a  door  at  the  far  end  of  it  opened  and  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Spenser  and  a  woman.  Susan,  ashamed 
at  having  caught  him,  frightened  lest  she  should  be 
found  where  she  had  no  business  to  be,  fled  back  along 
the  main  passage  and  jerked  open  the  street  door.  She 
ran  squarely  into  Sperry. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  he.  "I  was  in 
such  a  rush — I  ought  to  have  been  thinking  where  I 
was  going.  Did  I  hurt  you?"  This  last  most  anx 
iously.  "I'm  so  sorry " 

"It's  nothing — nothing,"  laughed  Susan.  "You  are 
the  one  that's  hurt." 

And  in  fact  she  had  knocked  Sperry  breathless. 
"You  don't  look  anything  like  so  strong,"  gasped  he. 

"Oh,  my  appearance  is  deceptive — in  a  lot  of 
ways." 

For  instance,  he  could  have  got  from  her  face  just 
then  no  hint  of  the  agony  of  fear  torturing  her — fear 
of  the  drop  into  the  underworld. 

"Find  Rod?"  asked  he. 

"He  wasn't  on  the  stage.     So — I  came  out  again.'* 

"Wait  here,"  said  Sperry.     "I'll  hunt  him  up." 

"Oh,  no — please  don't.  I  stopped  on  impulse.  I'll 
not  bother  him."  She  smiled  mischievously.  "I  might 
be  interrupting." 

Sperry  promptly  reddened.     She  had  no  difficulty  in 

312 


SUSAN  LENOX 


reading  what  was  in  his  mind — that  her  remark  had  re 
minded  him  of  Rod's  "affair,"  and  he  was  cursing 
himself  for  having  been  so  .stupid  as  to  forget  it  for 
the  moment  and  put  his  partner  in  danger  of  detection. 

"I — I  guess  he's  gone,"  stammered  Sperry.  "Lord, 
but  that  was  a  knock  you  gave  me!  Better  come  to 
lunch  with  me." 

Susan  hesitated,  a  wistful,  forlorn  look  in  her  eyes. 
"Do  you  really  want  me?"  asked  she. 

"Come  right  along,"  said  Sperry  in  a  tone  that  left 
no  doubt  of  his  sincerity.  "We'll  go  to  the  Knicker 
bocker  and  have  something  good  to  eat." 

"Oh,  no — a  quieter  place,"  urged  Susan. 

Sperry  laughed.  "You  mean  less  expensive.  There's 
one  of  the  great  big  differences  between  you  and  the 
make-believe  ladies  one  bumps  into  in  this  part  of  town. 
You  don't  like  to  be  troublesome  or  expensive.  But 
we'll  go  to  the  Knickerbocker.  I  feel  'way  down  today, 
and  I  intended  to  treat  myself.  You  don't  look  any  too 
(gay-hearted  yourself." 

"I'll  admit  I  don't  like  the  way  the  cards  are  run 
ning,"  said  Susan.  "But — they'll  run  better — sooner 
or  later." 

"Sure!"  cried  Sperry.  "You  needn't  worry  about 
the  play.  That's  all  right.  How  I  envy  women !" 

"Why?" 

"Oh — you  have  Rod  between  you  and  the  fight. 
While  I — I've  got  to  look  out  for  myself." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Susan.  "So  has  everyone,  for 
that  matter." 

"Believe  me,  Mrs.  Spenser,"  cried  Sperry,  earnestly, 
"you  can  count  on  Rod.  No  matter  what " 

"Please!"  protested  Susan.  "I  count  on  nobody.  I 
learned  long  ago  not  to  lean." 

313 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


"Well,  leaning  isn't  exactly  a  safe  position,"  Sperry 
admitted.  "There  never  was  a  perfectly  reliable  crutch. 
Tell  me  your  troubles." 

Susan  smilingly  shook  her  head.  "That'd  be  lean 
ing.  .  .  .  No,  thank  you.  I've  got  to  think  it  out 
for  myself.  I  believe  I  had  arranged  for  a  career  for 
myself.  It  seems  to  have  gone  to  pieces.  That's  all. 
Something  else  will  turn  up — after  lunch." 

"Not  a  doubt  in  the  world,"  replied  he  confidently. 
"Meanwhile — there's  Rod." 

Susan's  laugh  of  raillery  made  him  blush  guiltily. 
"Yes,"  said  she,  "there's  Rod."  She  laughed  again, 
merrily.  "There's  Rod — but  where  is  there?" 

"You're  the  only  woman  in  the  world  he  has  any  real 
liking  for,"  said  Sperry,  earnest  and  sincere.  "Don't 
you  ever  doubt  that,  Mrs.  Spenser." 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  cafe  and  he  had 
ordered,  he  excused  himself  and  Susan  saw  him  make 
his  way  to  a  table  where  sat  Fitzalan  and  another  man 
who  looked  as  if  he  too  had  to  do  with  the  stage.  It 
was  apparent  that  Fitzalan  was  excited  about  some 
thing;  his  lips,  his  arms,  his  head  were  in  incessant 
motion.  Susan  noted  that  he  had  picked  up  many  of 
Brent's  mannerisms ;  she  had  got  the  habit  of  noting 
this  imitativeness  in  men — and  in  women,  too — from 
having  seen  in  the  old  days  how  Rod  took  on  the  tricks 
of  speech,  manner,  expression,  thought  even,  of  what 
ever  man  he  happened  at  the  time  to  be  admiring.  May 
it  not  have  been  this  trait  of  Rod's  that  gave  her  the 
clue  to  his  character,  when  she  was  thinking  him  over, 
after  the  separation? 

Sperry  was  gone  nearly  ten  minutes.  He  came,  full 
of  apologies.  "Fitz  held  on  to  me  while  he  roasted 
Brent.  You've  heard  of  Brent,  of  course?" 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Yes,"  said  Susan. 

"Fitz  has  been  seeing  him  off.    And  he  says  it's " 

Susan  glanced  quickly  at  him.     "Off?"  she  said. 

"To  Europe." 

Susan  had  paused  in  removing  her  left  glove.  Rod's 
description  of  Brent's  way  of  sidestepping — Rod's  de 
scription  to  the  last  detail.  Her  hands  fluttered  un 
certainly — fluttering  fingers  like  a  flock  of  birds  flushed 
and  confused  by  the  bang  of  a  gun. 

"And  Fitz  says " 

"For  Europe,"  said  Susan.  She  was  drawing  her 
fingers  slowly  one  by  one  from  the  fingers  of  her  glove. 

"Yes.  He  sailed,  it  seems,  on  impulse — barely  time 
to  climb  aboard.  Fitz  always  lays  everything  to  a 
woman.  He  says  Brent  has  been  mixed  up,  for  a  year 
or  so  with —  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  oughtn't  to 
repeat  those  things.  I  don't  believe  'em — on  principle. 
Every  man — or  woman — who  amounts  to  anything  has 
scandal  talked  about  him  or  her  all  the  time.  Good 
Lord!  If  Robert  Brent  bothered  with  half  the  affairs 
that  are  credited  to  him,  he'd  have  no  time  or  strength 
— not  to  speak  of  brains — to  do  plays." 

"I  guess  even  the  busiest  man  manages  to  fit  a  woman 
in  somehow,"  observed  Susan.  "A  woman  or  so." 

Sperry  laughed.  "I  guess  yes,"  said  he.  "But  as  to 
Brent,  most  of  the  scandal  about  him  is  due  to  a  fad 
of  his — hunting  for  an  undeveloped  female  genius 
who " 

"I've  heard  of  that,"  interrupted  Susan.  "The  ser 
vice  is  dreadfully  slow  here.  How  long  is  it  since  you 
ordered?" 

"Twenty  minutes — and  here  comes  our  waiter."  And 
then,  being  one  of  those  who  must  finish  whatever  they 
have  begun,  he  went  on.  "Well,  it's  true  Brent  does 

315 


SUSAN  LENOX 


pick  up  and  drop  a  good  many  ladies  of  one  kind  and 
another.  And  naturally,  every  one  of  them  is  good- 
looking  and  clever  or  he'd  not  start  in.  But — you 
may  laugh  at  me  if  you  like — I  think  he's  strictly  busi 
ness  with  all  of  them.  He'd  have  got  into  trouble  if 
he  hadn't  been.  And  Fitz  admits  this  one  woman — 
she's  a  society  woman — is  the  only  one  there's  any  real 
basis  for  talk  about  in  connection  with  Brent." 

Susan  had  several  times  lifted  a  spoonful  of  soup  to 
her  lips  and  had  every  time  lowered  it  untasted. 

"And  Brent's  mighty  decent  to  those  he  tries  and 
has  to  give  up.  I  know  of  one  woman  he  carried  on  his 
pay  roll  for  nearly  two  years " 

"Let's  drop  Mr.  Brent,"  cried  Susan.  "Tell  me 
about — about  the  play." 

"Rod  must  be  giving  you  an  overdose  of  that." 

"I've  not  seen  much  of  him  lately.  How  was  the 
rehearsal  ?" 

"Fair — fair."  And  Sperry  forgot  Brent  and  talked 
on  and  on  about  the  play,  not  checking  himself  until 
the  coffee  was  served.  He  had  not  observed  that  Susan 
was  eating  nothing.  Neither  had  he  observed  that  she 
was  not  listening;  but  there  was  excuse  for  this  over 
sight,  as  she  had  set  her  expression  at  absorbed  atten 
tion  before  withdrawing  within  herself  to  think — and 
to  suffer.  She  came  to  the  surface  again  when  Sperry, 
complaining  of  the  way  the  leading  lady  was  doing  her 
part,  said:  "No  wonder  Brent  drops  one  after  another. 
Women  aren't  worth  much  as  workers.  Their  real 
mind's  always  occupied  with  the  search  for  a  man  to 
support  'em." 

"Not  always,"  cried  Susan,  quivering  with  sudden 
pain.  "Oh,  no,  Mr.  Sperry — not  always." 

"Yes — there  are  exceptions,"  said  Sperry,  not  noting 

316 


SUSAN  LENOX 


how  he  had  wounded  her.  "But — well,  I  never  happened 
to  run  across  one." 

"Can  you  blame  them?"  mocked  Susan.  She  was 
ashamed  that  she  had  been  stung  into  crying  out. 

"To  be  honest — no,"  said  Sperry.  "I  suspect  I'd 
throw  up  the  sponge  and  sell  out  if  I  had  anything  a 
lady  with  cash  wanted  to  buy.  I  only  suspect  myself." 

She  was  struggling  with  the  re-aroused  insane  terror 
of  a  fall  back  to  the  depths  whence  she  had  once  more 
just  come — and  she  felt  that,  if  she  fell  again,  it  would 
mean  the  very  end  of  hope.  It  must  have  been  instinct 
or  accident,  for  it  certainly  was  not  any  prompting 
from  her  calm  expression,  that  moved  him  to  say: 

"Now,  tell  me  your  troubles.  I've  told  you  mine  .  .  . 
You  surely  must  have  some?" 

Susan  forced  a  successful  smile  of  raillery.  "None 
to  speak  of,"  evaded  she. 

When  she  reached  home  there  was  a  telegram — from 
Brent: 

Compelled  to  sail  suddenly.  Shall  be  back  in  a  few  weeks.  Don't 
mind  this  annoying  interruption.  R.  B. 

A  very  few  minutes  after  she  read  these  words,  she 
was  at  work  on  the  play.  But — a  very  few  minutes 
thereafter  she  was  sitting  with  the  play  in  her  lap, 
eyes  gazing  into  the  black  and  menacing  future.  The 
misgivings  of  the  night  before  had  been  fed  and  fat 
tened  into  despairing  certainties  by  the  events  of  the 
day.  The  sun  was  shining,  never  more  brightly;  but 
it  was  not  the  light  of  her  City  of  the  Sun.  She  stayed 
in  all  afternoon  and  all  evening.  During  those  hours 
before  she  put  out  the  light  and  shut  herself  away  in 
the  dark  a  score  of  Susans,  every  one  different  from 
every  other,  had  been  seen  upon  the  little  theater  of 
27  317 


SUSAN  LENOX 


that  lodging  house  parlor-bedroom.  There  had  been 
a  hopeful  Susan,  a  sad  but  resolved  Susan,  a  strong 
Susan,  a  weak  Susan ;  there  had  been  Susans  who  could 
not  have  shed  a  tear;  there  had  been  Susans  who  shed 
many  tears — some  of  them  Susans  all  bitterness,  others 
Susans  all  humility  and  self-reproach.  Any  spectator 
would  have  been  puzzled  by  this  shifting  of  personality. 
Susan  herself  was  completely  confused.  She  sought  for 
her  real  self  among  this  multitude  so  contradictory. 
Each  successive  one  seemed  the  reality;  yet  none  per 
sisted.  When  we  look  in  at  our  own  souls,  it  is  like 
looking  into  a  many-sided  room  lined  with  mirrors.  We 
see  reflections — re-reflections — views  at  all  angles — but 
we  cannot  distinguish  the  soul  itself  among  all 
these  counterfeits,  all  real  yet  all  false  because  par 
tial. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  What  will  I 
do?" — that  was  her  last  cry  as  the  day  ended.  And 
it  was  her  first  cry  as  her  weary  brain  awakened  for 
the  new  day. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  came  the  regular  check  with 
a  note  from  Garvey — less  machine-like,  more  human. 
He  apologized  for  not  having  called,  said  one  thing 
and  another  had  prevented,  and  now  illness  of  a  near 
relative  compelled  him  to  leave  town  for  a  few  days, 
but  as  soon  as  he  came  back  he  would  immediately  call. 
It  seemed  to  Susan  that  there  could  be  but  one  reason 
why  he  should  call — the  reason  that  would  make  a 
timid,  soft-hearted  man  such  as  he  put  off  a  personal 
interview  as  long  as  he  could  find  excuses.  She  flushed 
hot  with  rage  and  shame  as  she  reflected  on  her  posi 
tion.  Garvey  pitying  her !  She  straightway  sat  down 
and  wrote : 

318 


SUSAN  LENOX 


DEAR  MR.  GARVEY:  Do  not  send  me  any  more  checks 
until  Mr.  Brent  comes  back  and  I  have  seen  him.  I  am  in 
doubt  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  go  on  with  the  work  he 
and  I  had  arranged. 

She  signed  this  "Susan  Lenox"  and  dispatched  it. 
At  once  she  felt  better  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had, 
with  characteristic  and  fatal  folly,  her  good  sense 
warned  her,  cut  herself  off  from  all  the  income  in  sight 
or  in  prospect.  She  had  debated  sending  back  the 
check,  but  had  decided  that  if  she  did  she  might  give 
the  impression  of  pique  or  anger.  No,  she  would  give 
him  every  chance  to  withdraw  from  a  bargain  with 
which  he  was  not  content;  and  he  would  get  the  idea 
that  it  was  she  who  was  ending  the  arrangement,  would 
therefore  feel  no  sense  of  responsibility  for  her.  She 
would  save  her  pride ;  she  would  spare  his  feelings.  She 
was  taking  counsel  of  Burlingham  these  days — was  re 
calling  the  lesson  he  had  taught  her,  was  getting  his  aid 
in  deciding  her  course.  Burlingham  protested  vehe 
mently  against  this  sending  back  of  the  check ;  but  she 
let  her  pride,  her  aversion  to  being  an  object  of  pity, 
overrule  him. 

A  few  days  more,  and  she  was  so  desperate,  so  har 
assed  that  she  altogether  lost  confidence  in  her  own 
judgment.  While  outwardly  she  seemed  to  be  the  same 
as  always  with  Rod,  she  had  a  feeling  of  utter  aliena 
tion.  Still,  there  was  no  one  else  to  whom  she  could 
turn.  Should  she  put  the  facts  before  him  and  ask 
his  opinion?  Her  intelligence  said  no;  her  heart  said 
perhaps.  While  she  was  hesitating,  he  decided  for  her. 
One  morning  at  breakfast  he  stopped  talking  about 
himself  long  enough  to  ask  carelessly : 

"About  you  and  Brent — he's  gone  away.  What  are 
you  doing?" 

319 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Nothing,"  said  she. 

"Going  to  take  that  business  up  again,  when  he 
comes  back?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  wouldn't  count  on  it,  if  I  were  you.  .  .  .  You're 
so  sensitive  that  I've  hesitated  to  say  anything.  But 
I  think  that  chap  was  looking  for  trouble,  and  when 
he  found  you  were  already  engaged,  why,  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  drop  it." 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Susan  indifferently.  "More 
coffee?" 

"Yes — a  little.  If  my  play's  as  good  as  your 
coffee —  That's  enough,  thanks.  .  .  .  Do  you  still 
draw  your — your " 

His  tone  as  he  cast  about  for  a  fit  word  made  her 
flush  scarlet.  "No — I  stopped  it  until  we  begin  work 
again." 

He  did  not  conceal  his  thorough  satisfaction. 
"That's  right !"  he  cried.  "The  only  cloud  on  our 
happiness  is  gone.  You  know,  a  man  doesn't  like  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"I  know,"  said  Susan  drily. 

And  she  understood  why  that  very  night  he  for  the 
first  time  asked  her  to  supper  after  the  rehearsal  with 
Sperry  and  Constance  Francklyn,  the  leading  lady, 
with  whom  he  was  having  one  of  those  affairs  which  as 
he  declared  to  Sperry  were  "absolutely  necessary  to  a 
man  of  genius  to  keep  him  freshened  up — to  keep  the 
fire  burning  brightly."  He  had  carefully  coached  Miss 
Francklyn  to  play  the  part  of  unsuspected  "under 
study" — Susan  saw  that  before  they  had  been  seated 
in  Jack's  ten  minutes.  And  she  also  saw  that  he  was 
himself  resolved  to  conduct  himself  "like  a  gentleman." 
But  after  he  had  taken  two  or  three  highballs,  Susan 

320 


SUSAN  LENOX 


was  forced  to  engage  deeply  in  conversation  with  the 
exasperated  and  alarmed  Sperry  to  avoid  seeing  how 
madly  Rod  and  Constance  were  flirting.  She,  however, 
did  contrive  to  see  nothing — at  least,  the  other  three 
were  convinced  that  she  had  not  seen.  When  they  were 
back  in  their  rooms,  Rod — where  through  pretense 
or  through  sidetracked  amorousness  or  from  simple  in 
toxication — became  more  demonstrative  than  he  had 
been  for  a  long  time. 

"No,  there's  nobody  like  you,"  he  declared.  "Even 
if  I  wandered  I'd  always  come  back  to  you." 

"Really?"  said  Susan  with  careless  irony.  "That's 
good.  No,  I  can  unhook  my  blouse." 

"I  do  believe  you're  growing  cold." 

"I  don't  feel  like  being  messed  with  tonight." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  he  sulkily.  Then,  forgetting 
his  ill  humor  after  a  few  minutes  of  watching  her  grace 
ful  movements  and  gestures  as  she  took  off  her  dress 
and  made  her  beautiful  hair  ready  for  the  night,  he 
burst  out  in  a  very  different  tone :  "You  don't  know 
how  glad  I  am  that  you're  dependent  on  me  again. 
You'll  not  be  difficult  any  more." 

A  moment's  silence,  then  Susan,  with  a  queer  little 
laugh,  "Men  don't  in  the  least  mind — do  they?" 

"Mind  what?" 

"Being  loved  for  money."  There  was  a  world  of 
sarcasm  in  her  accent  on  that  word  loved. 

"Oh,  nonsense.  You  don't  understand  yourself," 
declared  he  with  large  confidence.  "Women  never  grow 
up.  They're  like  babies — and  babies,  you  know,  love 
the  person  that  feeds  them." 

"And  dogs — and  cats — and  birds — and  all  the  lower 
orders."  She  took  a  book  and  sat  in  a  wrapper  under 
the  light. 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


"Come  to  bed — please,  dear,"  pleaded  he. 

"No,  I'll  read  a  while." 

And  she  held  the  book  before  her  until  he  was  asleep. 
Then  she  sat  a  long  time,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her 
chin  supported  by  her  hands,  her  gaze  fixed  upon  his 
face — the  face  of  the  man  who  was  her  master  now. 
She  must  please  him,  must  accept  what  treatment  he 
saw  fit  to  give,  must  rein  in  her  ambitions  to  suit  the 
uncertain  gait  and  staying  power  of  his  ability  to 
achieve.  She  could  not  leave  him ;  he  could  leave  her 
when  he  might  feel  so  inclined.  Her  master — capri 
cious,  tyrannical,  a  drunkard.  Her  sole  reliance — and 
the  first  condition  of  his  protection  was  that  she  should 
not  try  to  do  for  herself.  A  dependent,  condemned  to 
become  even  more  dependent. 


XVII 

SHE  now  spent  a  large  part  of  every  day  in  wan 
dering,  like  a  derelict,  drifting  aimlessly  this  way 
or  that,  up  into  the  Park  or  along  Fifth  Avenue. 
She  gazed  intently  into  shop  windows,  apparently  in 
specting  carefully  all  the  articles  on  display;  but  she 
passed  on,  unconscious  of  having  seen  anything.  If 
she  sat  at  home  with  a  book  she  rarely  turned  a  page", 
though  her  gaze  was  fastened  upon  the  print  as  if  she 
were  absorbingly  interested. 

What  was  she  feeling?  The  coarse  contacts  of 
street  life  and  tenement  life — the  choice  between  mon 
strous  defilements  from  human  beings  and  monstrous 
defilements  from  filth  and  vermin.  What  was  she  see 
ing?  The  old  women  of  the  slums — the  forlorn,  aloof 
figures  of  shattered  health  and  looks — creeping  along 
the  gutters,  dancing  in  the  barrel  houses,  sleeping  on 
the  floor  in  some  vile  hole  in  the  wall — sleeping  the 
sleep  from  which  one  awakes  bitten  by  mice  and  bugs, 
and  swarming  with  lice. 

She  had  entire  confidence  in  Brent's  judgment. 
Brent  must  have  discovered  that  she  was  without  talent 
for  the  stage — for  if  he  had  thought  she  had  the  least 
talent,  would  he  not  in  his  kindness  have  arranged  or 
offered  some  sort  of  place  in  some  theater  or  other? 
Since  she  had  no  stage  talent — then — what  should  she 
do?  What  could  she  do?  And  so  her  mind  wandered 
as  aimlessly  as  her  wandering  steps.  And  never  before 
had  the  sweet  melancholy  of  her  eyes  been  so  moving. 

But,  though  she  did  not  realize  it,  there  was  jt 
323 


SUSAN  LENOX 


highly  significant  difference  between  this  mood  of  pro 
found  discouragement  and  all  the  other  similar  moods 
that  had  accompanied  and  accelerated  her  downward 
plunges.  Every  time  theretofore,  she  had  been  cowed 
by  the  crushing  mandate  of  destiny — had  made  no 
struggle  against  it  beyond  the  futile  threshings  about 
of  aimless  youth.  This  time  she  lost  neither  strength 
nor  courage.  She  was  no  longer  a  child;  she  was  no 
longer  mere  human  flotsam  and  jetsam.  She  did  not 
know  which  way  to  turn ;  but  she  did  know,  with  all 
the  certainty  of  a  dauntless  will,  that  she  would  turn 
some  way — and  that  it  would  not  be  a  way  leading  back 
to  the  marshes  and  caves  of  the  underworld.  She  wan 
dered — she  wandered  aimlessly;  but  not  for  an  instant 
did  she  cease  to  keep  watch  for  the  right  direction — 
the  direction  that  would  be  the  best  available  in  the 
circumstances.  She  did  not  know  or  greatly  care  which 
way  it  led,  so  long  as  it  did  not  lead  back  whence  she 
had  come. 

In  all  her  excursions  she  had — not  consciously  but  by 
instinct — kept  away  from  her  old  beat.  Indeed,  except 
in  the  company  of  Spenser  or  Sperry  she  had  never 
ventured  into  the  neighborhood  of  Long  Acre.  But 
one  day  she  was  deflected  by  chance  at  the  Forty-second 
Street  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  drifted  westward, 
pausing  at  each  book  stall  to  stare  at  the  titles  of  the 
bargain  offerings  in  literature.  As  she  stood  at  one  of 
these  stalls  near  Sixth  Avenue,  she  became  conscious 
that  two  men  were  pressing  against  her,  one  on  either 
side.  She  moved  back  and  started  on  her  way.  One 
of  the  men  was  standing  before  her.  She  lifted  her 
eyes,  was  looking  into  the  cruel  smiling  eyes  of  a  man 
with  a  big  black  mustache  and  the  jaws  of  a  prize 
fighter.  His  smile  broadened. 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  thought  it  was  you,  Queenie,"  said  he.  "Delighted 
to  see  you." 

She  recognized  him  as  a  fly  cop  who  had  been  one  of 
Freddie  Palmer's  handy  men.  She  fell  back  a  step  and 
the  other  man — she  knew  him  instantly  as  also  a  police 
man — lined  up  beside  him  of  the  black  mustache.  Both 
men  were  laughing. 

"We've  been  on  the  lookout  for  you  a  long  time, 
Queenie,"  said  the  other.  "There's  a  friend  of  yours 
that  wants  to  see  you  mighty  bad." 

Susan  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  her  face  pale 
but  calm,  in  contrast  to  her  heart  where  was  all  the 
fear  and  horror  of  the  police  which  long  and  savage 
experience  had  bred.  She  turned  away  without  speak 
ing  and  started  toward  Sixth  Avenue. 

"Now,  what  d'ye  think  of  that?"  said  Black  Mus 
tache  to  his  "side  kick."  "I  thought  she  was  too  much 
of  a  lady  to  cut  an  old  friend.  Guess  we'd  better  run 
her  in,  Pete." 

"That's  right,"  assented  Pete.  "Then  we  can  keep 
her  safe  till  F.  P.  can  get  the  hooks  on  her." 

Black  Mustache  laughed,  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
"You'll  come  along  quietly,"  said  he.  "You  don't  want 
to  make  a  scene.  You  always  was  a  perfect  lady." 

She  drew  her  arm  away.  "I  am  a  married  woman — 
living  with  my  husband." 

Black  Mustache  laughed.  "Think  of  that,  Pete! 
And  she  soliciting  us.  That'll  be  good  news  for  your 
loving  husband.  Come  along,  Queenie.  Your  record's 
against  you.  Everybody'll  know  you've  dropped  back 
to  your  old  ways." 

"I  am  going  to  my  husband,"  said  she  quietly.  "You 
had  better  not  annoy  me." 

Pete  looked  uneasy,  but  Black  Mustache's  sinister 
325 


SUSAN   LENOX 


face  became  more  resolute.  "If  you  wanted  to  live  re 
spectable,  why  did  you  solicit  us  two?  Come  along — 
or  do  you  want  me  and  Pete  to  take  you  by  the 
arms?" 

"Very  well,"  said  she.  "I'll  go."  She  knew  the  po 
lice,  knew  that  Palmer's  lieutenant  would  act  as  he  said 
— and  she  also  knew  what  her  "record"  would  do  to 
ward  carrying  through  the  plot. 

She  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  station  house,  the 
two  plain  clothes  men  dropping  a  few  feet  behind  and 
rejoining  her  only  when  they  reached  the  steps  between 
the  two  green  lamps.  In  this  way  they  avoided  collect 
ing  a  crowd  at  their  heels.  As  she  advanced  to  the 
desk,  the  sergeant  yawning  over  the  blotter  glanced  up. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  cried  he,  all  interest  at  once.  "If 
it  ain't  F.  P.'s  Queenie!" 

"And  up  to  her  old  tricks,  sergeant,"  said  Black 
Mustache.  "She  solicited  me  and  Pete." 

Susan  was  looking  the  sergeant  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"I  am  a  married  woman,"  said  she.  "I  live  with  my 
husband.  I  was  looking  at  some  books  in  Forty-second 
Street  when  these  two  came  up  and  arrested  me." 

The  sergeant  quailed,  glanced  at  Pete  who  was 
guiltily  hanging  his  head — glanced  at  Black  Mustache. 
There  he  got  the  support  he  was  seeking.  "What's 
your  husband's  name?"  demanded  Black  Mustache 
roughly.  "What's  your  address?" 

And  Rod's  play  coming  on  the  next  night  but  one! 
She  shrank,  collected  herself.  "I  am  not  going  to  drag 
him  into  this,  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  she.  "I  give  you 
a  chance  to  keep  yourselves  out  of  trouble."  She  was 
gazing  calmly  at  the  sergeant  again.  "You  know  these 
men  are  not  telling  the  truth.  You  know  they've 
brought  me  here  because  of  Freddie  Palmer.  My  hus- 

326 


SUSAN  LENOX 


band  knows  all  about  my  past.     He  will  stand  by  me. 
But  I  wish  to  spare  him." 

The  sergeant's  uncertain  manner  alarmed  Black 
Mustache.  "She's  putting  up  a  good  bluff,"  scoffed 
he.  "The  truth  is  she  ain't  got  no  husband.  She'd 
not  have  solicited  us  if  she  was  living  decent." 

"You  hear  what  the  officer  says,"  said  the  sergeant, 
taking  the  tone  of  great  kindness.  "You'll  have  to  give 
your  name  and  address — and  I'll  leave  it  to  the  judge 
to  decide  between  you  and  the  officers."  He  took  up 
his  pen.  "What's  your  name?" 

Susan,  weak  and  trembling,  was  clutching  the  iron 
rail  before  the  desk — the  rail  worn  smooth  by  the 
nervous  hands  of  ten  thousand  of  the  social  system's 
sick  or  crippled  victims. 

"Come — what's  your  name?"  jeered  Black  Mus 
tache. 

Susan  did  not  answer. 

"Put  her  down  Queenie  Brown,"  cried  he,  trium 
phantly. 

The  sergeant  wrote.     Then  he  said:    "Age?" 

No  answer  from  Susan.  Black  Mustache  answered 
for  her:  "About  twenty-two  now." 

"She  don't  look  it,"  said  the  sergeant,  almost  at  ease 
once  more.  "But  brunettes  stands  the  racket  better'n 
blondes.  Native  parents?" 

No  answer. 

"Native.  You  don't  look  Irish  or  Dutch  or  Dago — 
though  you  might  have  a  dash  of  the  Spinnitch  or  the 
Frog-eaters.  Ever  arrested  before?" 

No  answer  from  the  girl,  standing  rigid  at  the  bar. 
Black  Mustache  said: 

"At  least  oncet,  to  my  knowledge.  I  run  her  in 
myself." 

327 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Oh,  she's  got  a  record?"  exclaimed  the  sergeant, 
now  wholly  at  ease.  "Why  the  hell  didn't  you  say 
so?" 

"I  thought  you  remembered.  You  took  her  pedi 
gree." 

"I  do  recollect  now,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Take  my 
advice,  Queenie,  and  drop  that  bluff  about  the  officers 
lying.  Swallow  your  medicine — plead  guilty — and 
you'll  get  off  with  a  fine.  If  you  lie  about  the  police, 
the  judge'll  soak  it  to  you.  It  happens  to  be  a  good 
judge — a  friend  of  Freddie's."  Then  to  the  policemen : 
"Take  her  along  to  court,  boys,  and  get  back  here  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

"I  want  her  locked  up,"  objected  Black  Mustache. 
ttl  want  F.  P.  to  see  her.  I've  got  to  hunt  for  him." 

"Can't  do  it,"  said  the  sergeant.  "If  she  makes  a 
yell  about  police  oppression,  our  holding  on  to  her 
would  look  bad.  No,  put  her  through." 

Susan  now  straightened  herself  and  spoke.  "I  shan't 
make  any  complaint,"  said  she.  "Anything  rather 
than  court.  I  can't  stand  that.  Keep  me  here." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  cried  the  sergeant.  "That's  a 
trick.  She'd  have  a  good  case  against  us." 

"F.  P.'ll  raise  the  devil  if "  began  Black  Mus 
tache. 

"Then  hunt  him  up  right  away.  To  court  she's  got 
to  go.  I  don't  want  to  get  broke." 

The  two  men  fell  afoul  each  other  with  curse  and 
abuse.  They  were  in  no  way  embarrassed  by  the  pres 
ence  of  Susan.  Her  "record"  made  her  of  no  account 
either  as  a  woman  or  as  a  witness.  Soon  each  was  so 
well  pleased  with  the  verbal  wounds  he  had  dealt  the 
other  that  their  anger  evaporated.  The  upshot  of  the 
hideous  controversy  was  that  Black  Mustache  said: 

328 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"You  take  her  to  court,  Pete.  I'll  hunt  up  F.  P. 
Keep  her  till  the  last." 

In  after  days  she  could  recall  starting  for  the  street 
car  with  the  officer,  Pete ;  then  memory  was  a  blank 
until  she  was  sitting  in  a  stuffy  room  with  a  prison  odor 
— the  anteroom  to  the  court.  She  and  Pete  were  alone. 
He  was  walking  nervously  up  and  down  pulling  his  little 
fair  mustache.  It  must  have  been  that  she  had  re 
tained  throughout  the  impassive  features  which,  how 
ever  stormy  it  was  within,  gave  her  an  air  of  strength 
and  calm.  Otherwise  Pete  would  not  presently  have 
halted  before  her  to  say  in  a  low,  agitated  voice : 

"If  you  can  make  trouble  for  us,  don't  do  it.  I've 
got  a  wife,  and  three  babies — one  come  only  last  week 
— and  my  old  mother  paralyzed.  You  know  how  it  is 
with  us  fellows — that  we've  got  to  do  what  them  higher 
up  says  or  be  broke." 

Susan  made  no  reply. 

"And  F.  P. — he's  right  up  next  the  big  fellows  nowa 
days.  What  he  says  goes.  You  can  see  for  yourself 
how  much  chance  against  him  there'd  be  for  a  common 
low-down  cop." 

She  was  still  silent,  not  through  anger  as  he  imagined 
but  because  she  had  no  sense  of  the  reality  of  what  was 
happening.  The  officer,  who  had  lost  his  nerve,  looked 
at  her  a  moment,  in  his  animal  eyes  a  humble  pleading 
look;  then  he  gave  a  groan  and  turned  away.  "Oh, 
hell!"  he  muttered. 

Again  her  memory  ceased  to  record  until — the  door 
swung  open ;  she  shivered,  thinking  it  was  the  summons 
to  court.  Instead,  there  stood  Freddie  Palmer.  The 
instant  she  looked  into  his  face  she  became  as  calm  and 
strong  as  her  impassive  expression  had  been  falsely 
making  her  seem.  Behind  him  was  Black  Mustache, 


SUSAN   LENOX 


his  face  ghastly,  sullen,  cowed.  Palmer  made  a  jerky 
motion  of  head  and  arm.  Pete  went;  and  the  door 
closed  and  she  was  alone  with  him. 

"I've  seen  the  Judge  and  you're  free,"  said 
Freddie. 

She  stood  and  began  to  adjust  her  hat  and  veil. 

"I'll  have  those  filthy  curs  kicked  off  the  force." 

She  was  looking  tranquilly  at  him. 

"You  don't  believe  me?  You  think  I  ordered  it 
done?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "No  matter,"  she  said. 
"It's  undone  now.  I'm  much  obliged.  It's  more  than  I 
expected." 

"You  don't  believe  me — and  I  don't  blame  you.  You 
think  I'm  making  some  sort  of  grandstand  play." 

"You  haven't  changed — at  least  not  much." 

"I'll  admit,  when  you  left  I  was  wild  and  did  tell  'em 
to  take  you  in  as  soon  as  they  found  you.  But  that 
was  a  long  time  ago.  And  I  never  meant  them  to 
disturb  a  woman  who  was  living  respectably  with  her 
husband.  There  may  have  been — yes,  there  was  a 
time  when  I'd  have  done  that — and  worse.  But  not 
any  more.  You  say  I  haven't  changed.  Well,  you're 
wrong.  In  some  ways  I  have.  I'm  climbing  up,  as  I 
always  told  you  I  would — and  as  a  man  gets  up  he  sees 
things  differently.  At  least,  he  acts  differently.  I 
don't  do  that  kind  of  dirty  work,  any  more." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  murmured  Susan  for  lack  of 
anything  else  to  say. 

He  was  as  handsome  as  ever,  she  saw — had  the  same 
charm  of  manner — a  charm  owing  not  a  little  of  its 
potency  to  the  impression  he  made  of  the  man  who 
would  dare  as  far  as  any  man,  and  then  go  on  to  dare 
a  step  farther — the  step  from  which  all  but  the  rare, 

330 


SUSAN  LENOX 


utterly  unafraid  man  shrinks.  His  look  at  her  could 
not  but  appeal  to  her  vanity  as  woman,  and  to  her 
woman's  craving  for  being  loved;  at  the  same  time  it 
agitated  her  with  specters  of  the  days  of  her  slavery 
to  him.  He  said: 

"Fo^'ve  changed — a  lot.  And  all  to  the  good.  The 
only  sign  is  rouge  on  your  lips  and  that  isn't  really 
a  sign  nowadays.  But  then  you  never  did  look  the  pro 
fessional — and  you  weren't." 

His  eyes  were  appealingly  tender  as  he  gazed  at 
her  sweet,  pensive  face,  with  its  violet-gray  eyes  full 
of  mystery  and  sorrow  and  longing.  And  the  clear 
pallor  of  her  skin,  and  the  slender  yet  voluptuous  lines 
of  her  form  suggested  a  pale,  beautiful  rose,  most  deli 
cate  of  flowers  yet  about  the  hardiest. 

"So — you've  married  and  settled  down?" 

"No,"  replied  Susan.  "Neither  the  one  nor  the 
other." 

"Why,  you  told " 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  a  married  woman." 

"Why  didn't  you  give  your  name  and  address  at 
the  police  station?"  said  he.  "They'd  have  let  you 
go  at  once." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  she.  "But  the  newspapers 
would  probably  have  published  it.  So — I  couldn't.  As 
it  is  I've  been  worrying  for  fear  I'd  be  recognized,  and 
the  man  would  get  a  write-up." 

"That  was  square,"  said  he.  "Yes,  it'd  have  been 
a  dirty  trick  to  drag  him  in." 

It  was  the  matter-of-course  to  both  of  them  that 
she  should  have  protected  her  "friend."  She  had  simply 
obeyed  about  the  most  stringent  and  least  often  vio 
lated  article  in  the  moral  code  of  the  world  of  outcasts. 
If  Freddie's  worst  enemy  in  that  world  had  murdered 

331 


SUSAN  LENOX 


him,  Freddie  would  have  used  his  last  breath  in  shield 
ing  him  from  the  common  foe,  the  law. 

"If  you're  not  married  to  him,  you're  free,"  said 
Freddie  with  a  sudden  new  kind  of  interest  in  her. 

"I  told  you  I  should  always  be  free." 

They  remained  facing  each  other  a  moment.  When 
she  moved  to  go,  he  said: 

"I  see  you've  still  got  your  taste  in  dress — only  more 
so." 

She  smiled  faintly,  glanced  at  his  clothing.  He  was 
dressed  with  real  fashion.  He  looked  Fifth  Avenue  at 
its  best,  and  his  expression  bore  out  the  appearance 
of  the  well-bred  man  of  fortune.  "I  can  return  the 
compliment,"  said  she.  "And  you  too  have  improved." 

At  a  glance  all  the  old  fear  of  him  had  gone  beyond 
the  possibility  of  return.  For  she  instantly  realized 
that,  like  all  those  who  give  up  war  upon  society  and 
come  in  and  surrender,  he  was  enormously  agitated 
about  his  new  status,  was  impressed  by  the  conven 
tionalities  to  a  degree  that  made  him  almost  weak  and 
mildly  absurd.  He  was  saying: 

"I  was  brought  up  badly — badly  for  the  game,  I 
mean.  But  I'm  doing  better,  and  I  shall  do  still  better. 
I  can't  abolish  the  system.  I  can't  stand  out  against  it 
— and  live.  So,  I'm  yielding — in  my  own  foolish  fash 
ion." 

"You  don't  lay  up  against  me  the — the — you  know 
what  I  mean?" 

The  question  surprised  her,  so  far  as  it  aroused  any 
emotion.  She  answered  indifferently: 

"I  don't  lay  anything  up  against  anybody.  What's 
the  use?  I  guess  we  all  do  the  best  we  can — the  best 
the  system'll  let  us." 

And  she  was  speaking  the  exact  truth.     She  did  not 


SUSAN  LENOX 


reason  out  the  causes  of  a  state  of  mind  so  alien  to 
the  experiences  of  the  comfortable  classes  that  they 
could  not  understand  it,  would  therefore  see  in  it 
hardness  of  heart.  In  fact,  the  heart  has  nothing  to 
do  with  this  attitude  in  those  who  are  exposed  to  the 
full  force  of  the  cruel  buffetings  of  the  storms  that 
incessantly  sweep  the  wild  and  wintry  sea  of  active  life. 
They  lose  the  sense  of  the  personal.  Where  they  yield 
to  anger  and  revenge  upon  the  instrument  the  blow 
fate  has  used  it  to  inflict,  the  resentment  is  momentary. 
The  mood  of  personal  vengeance  is  characteristic  of 
stupid  people  leading  uneventful  lives — of  comfortable 
classes,  of  remote  rural  districts.  She  again  moved 
to  go,  this  time  putting  out  her  hand  with  a  smile.  He 
said,  with  an  awkwardness  most  significant  in  one  so 
supple  of  mind  and  manner: 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I've  got  something  to  pro 
pose — something  that'll  interest  you.  Will  you  give 
me — say,  about  an  hour?" 

She  debated,  then  smiled.  "You  will  have  me  ar 
rested  if  I  refuse?" 

He  flushed  scarlet.  "You're  giving  me  what's  com 
ing  to  me,"  said  he.  "The  reason — one  reason — I've 
got  on  so  well  is  that  I've  never  been  a  liar." 

"No — you  never  were  that." 

"You,  too.  It's  always  a  sign  of  bravery,  and 
bravery's  the  one  thing  I  respect.  Yes,  what  I  said  I'd 
do  always  I  did.  That's  the  only  way  to  get  on  in 
politics — and  the  crookeder  the  politics  the  more  care 
ful  a  man  has  to  be  about  acting  on  the  level.  I  can 
borrow  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  without  signing 
a  paper — and  that's  more  than  the  crooks  in  Wall 
Street  can  do — the  biggest  and  best  of  them.  So, 


'SUSAN  LENOX 


when  I  told  you  how  things  were  with  me  about  you,  I 
was  on  the  level. " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Susan.  "Where  shall  we  go?  I 
can't  ask  you  to  come  home  with  me." 

"We  might  go  to  tea  somewhere " 

Susan  laughed  outright.  Tea !  Freddie  Palmer  pro 
posing  tea!  What  a  changed  hooligan — how  ridicu 
lously  changed!  The  other  Freddie  Palmer — the  real 
one — the  fascinating  repelling  mixture  of  all  the  bar 
baric  virtues  and  vices  must  still  be  there.  But  how 
carefully  hidden — and  what  strong  provocation  would 
be  needed  to  bring  that  savage  to  the  surface  again. 
The  Italian  in  him,  that  was  carrying  him  so  far  so 
cleverly,  enabled  him  instantly  to  understand  her 
amusement.  He  echoed  her  laugh.  Said  he : 

"You've  no  idea  the  kind  of  people  I'm  traveling  with 
— not  political  swells,  but  the  real  thing.  What  do  you 
say  to  the  Brevoort?" 

She  hesitated. 

"You  needn't  be  worried  about  being  seen  with  me, 
no  matter  how  high  you're  flying,"  he  hastened  to 
say.  "I  always  did  keep  myself  in  good  condition  for 
the  rise.  Nothing's  known  about  me — or  ever  will 
be." 

The  girl  was  smiling  at  him  again.  "I  wasn't  think 
ing  of  those  things,"  said  she.  "I've  never  been  to  the 
Brevoort." 

"It's  quiet  and  respectable." 

Susan's  eyes  twinkled.  "I'm  glad  it's  respectable," 
said  she. 

As  they  walked  through  West  Ninth  Street  she  noted 
that  there  was  more  of  a  physical  change  in  him  than 
she  had  seen  at  first  glance.  He  was  less  athletic, 
heavier  of  form  and  his  face  was  fuller.  "You  don't 

334 


SUSAN  LENOX 


keep   in    as   good   condition    as    you   used,"    said   she. 

"It's  those  infernal  automobiles,"  cried  he.  "They're 
death  to  figure — to  health,  for  that  matter.  But  I've 
got  the  habit,  and  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  break  my 
self  of  it.  I've  taken  on  twenty  pounds  in  the  past  year 
and  I've  got  myself  so  upset  that  the  doctor  has  ordered 
me  abroad  to  take  a  cure.  Then  there's  champagne. 
I  can't  let  that  alone,  either,  though  I  know  it's  plain 
poison." 

And  when  they  were  in  the  restaurant  of  the  Bre- 
voort  he  insisted  on  ordering  champagne — and  left  her 
for  a  moment  to  telephone  for  his  automobile.  It 
amused  her  to  see  a  man  so  masterful  thus  pettily  en 
slaved.  She  tvughed  at  him,  and  he  again  denounced 
himself  as  a  weak  fool.  "Money  and  luxury  are  too 
much  for  me.  They  are  for  everybody.  I'm  not  as 
strong  willed  as  I  used  to  be,"  he  said.  "And  it  makes 
me  uneasy.  That's  another  reason  for  my  proposi 
tion." 

"Well— let'  hear  it,"  said  she.  "I  happen  to  be  in 
a  position  where  I'm  fond  of  hearing  propositions — 
even  if  I  have  no  intention  of  accepting." 

She  was  watching  him  narrowly.  The  Freddie  Pal 
mer  he  was  showing  to  her  was  a  surprising  but  per 
fectly  logical  development  of  a  side  of  his  character 
with  which  she  had  been  familiar  in  the  old  days;  she 
was  watching  for  that  other  side — the  sinister  and 
cruel  side.  "But  first,"  he  went  on,  "I  must  tell  you 
a  little  about  myself.  You  know  about  my  family." 

"I  remember,"  said  Susan. 

"Well,  honestly,  do  you  wonder  that  I  was  what  I 
used  to  be?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  wonder  that  you  are  what 
you  seem  to  be." 

335 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"What  I  come  pretty  near  being,"  cried  he.  "The 
part  that's  more  or  less  put  on  today  is  going  to  be 
the  real  thing  tomorrow.  That's  the  way  it  is  with 
life — you  put  on  a  thing,  and  gradually  learn  to  wear 
it.  And — I  want  you  to  help  me." 

There  fell  silence  between  them,  he  gazing  at  his 
glass  of  champagne,  turning  it  round  and  round  be 
tween  his  long  white  fingers  and  watching  the  bubbles 
throng  riotously  up  from  the  bottom.  "Yes,"  he  said 
thoughtfully,  "I  want  you  to  help  me.  I've  been  wait 
ing  for  you.  I  knew  you'd  turn  up  again."  He 
laughed.  "I've  been  true  to  you  in  a  way — a  man's 
way.  I've  hunted  the  town  for  women  who  suggested 
you — a  poor  sort  of  makeshift — but — I  had  to  do 
something." 

"What  were  you  going  to  tell  me?" 

Her  tone  was  businesslike.  He  did  not  resent  it, 
but  straightway  acquiesced.  "I'll  plunge  right  in. 
I've  been,  as  you  know,  a  bad  one — bad  all  my  life. 
I  was  born  bad.  You  know  about  my  mother  and 
father.  One  of  my  sisters  died  in  a  disreputable  resort. 
The  other — well,  the  last  I  heard  of  her,  she  was  doing 
time  in  an  English  pen.  I've  got  a  brother — he's  a 
degenerate.  Well!  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  the 
thing  that  is  necessary." 

"Respectability,"  said  Susan. 

"Respectability — exactly.  So  I  set  out  to  improve 
my  brains.  I  went  to  night  school  and  read  and 
studied.  And  I  didn't  stay  a  private  in  the  gang  of 
toughs.  I  had  the  brains  to  be  leader,  but  the  leader's 
got  to  be  a  fighter  too.  I  took  up  boxing  and  made 
good  in  the  ring.  I  got  to  be  leader.  Then  I  pushed 
my  way  up  where  I  thought  out  the  dirty  work  for 
the  others  to  do,  and  I  stayed  under  cover  and  made  'em 

336 


SUSAN  LENOX 


bring  the  big  share  of  the  profits  to  me.  And  they  did 
it  because  I  had  the  brains  to  think  out  jobs  that  paid 
well  and  that  could  be  pulled  off  without  getting 
pinched — at  least,  not  always  getting  pinched." 

Palmer  sipped  his  champagne,  looked  at  her  to  see  if 
she  was  appreciative.  "I  thought  you'd  understand," 
said  he.  "I  needn't  go  into  details.  You  remember 
about  the  women?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Susan.  "That  was  one 
step  in  the  ladder  up?" 

"It  got  me  the  money  to  make  my  first  play  for 
respectability.  I  couldn't  have  got  it  any  other  way. 
I  had  extravagant  tastes — and  the  leader  has  to  be 
always  giving  up  to  help  this  fellow  and  that  out  of 
the  hole.  And  I  never  did  have  luck  with  the  cards 
and  the  horses." 

"Why  did  you  want  to  be  respectable?"  she  asked. 

"Because  that's  the  best  graft,"  explained  he.  "It 
means  the  best  money,  and  the  most  influence.  The 
coyotes  that  raid  the  sheepfold  don't  get  the  big 
share — though  they  may  get  a  good  deal.  No,  it's 
the  shepherds  and  the  owners  that  pull  off  the  most. 
I've  been  leader  of  coyotes.  I'm  graduating  into 
shepherd  and  proprietor." 

"I  see,"  said  Susan.  "You  make  it  beautifully 
clear." 

He  bowed  and  smiled.  "Thank  you,  kindly.  Then, 
I'll  go  on.  I'm  deep  in  the  contracting  business  now. 
I've  got  a  pot  of  money  put  away.  I've  cut  out  the 
cards — except  a  little  gentlemen's  game  now  and  then, 
to  help  me  on  with  the  right  kind  of  people.  Horses, 
the  same  way.  I've  got  my  political  pull  copper- 
riveted.  It's  as  good  with  the  Republicans  as  with 
Democrats,  and  as  good  with  the  reform  crowd  as 

337 


SUSAN  LENOX 


with  either.  My  next  move  is  to  cut  loose  from  the 
gang.  I've  put  a  lot  of  lieutenants  between  me  and 
them,  instead  of  dealing  with  them  direct.  I'm  putting 
in  several  more — fellows  I'm  not  ashamed  to  be  seen 
with  in  Delmonico's." 

"What's  become  of  Jim?"  asked  Susan. 

"Dead — a  kike  shot  him  all  to  pieces  in  a  joint  in 
Seventh  Avenue  about  a  month  ago.  As  I  was  saying, 
how  do  these  big  multi-millionaires  do  the  trick?  They 
don't  tell  somebody  to  go  steal  what  they  happen  to 
want.  They  tell  somebody  they  want  it,  and  that 
somebody  else  tells  somebody  else  to  get  it,  and  that 
somebody  else  passes  the  word  along  until  it  reaches 
the  poor  devils  who  must  steal  it  or  lose  their  jobs.  I 
studied  it  all  out,  and  I've  framed  up  my  game  the 
same  way.  Nowadays,  every  dollar  that  comes  to 
me  has  been  thoroughly  cleaned  long  before  it  drops 
into  my  pocket.  But  you're  wondering  where  you 
come  in." 

"Women  are  only  interested  in  what's  coming  to 
them,"  said  Susan. 

"Sensible  men  are  the  same  way.  The  men  who 
aren't — they  work  for  wages  and  salaries.  If  you're 
going  to  live  off  of  other  people,  as  women  and  the 
rich  do,  you've  got  to  stand  steady,  day  and  night,  for 
Number  One.  And  now,  here's  where  you  come  in. 
You've  no  objection  to  being  respectable?" 

"I've  no  objection  to  not  being  disreputable." 

"That's  the  right  way  to  put  it,"  he  promptly 
agreed.  "Respectable,  you  know,  doesn't  mean  any 
thing  but  appearances.  People  who  are  really  re 
spectable,  who  let  it  strike  in,  instead  of  keeping  it  on 
the  outside  where  it  belongs — .they  soon  get  poor  and 
drop  down  and  out." 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Palmer's  revelation  of  himself  and  of  a  philosophy 
which  life  as  it  had  revealed  itself  to  her  was  inces 
santly  urging  her  to  adopt  so  grappled  her  attention 
that  she  altogether  forgot  herself.  A  man  on  his  way 
to  the  scaffold  who  suddenly  sees  and  feels  a  cataclysm 
rocking  the  world  about  him  forgets  his  own  plight. 
Unconsciously  he  was  epitomizing,  unconsciously  she 
was  learning,  the  whole  story  of  the  progress  of  the 
race  upward  from  beast  toward  intellect — the  brutal 
and  bloody  building  of  the  highway  from  the  caves  of 
darkness  toward  the  peaks  of  light.  The  source  from 
which  springs,  and  ever  has  sprung,  the  cruelty  of 
man  toward  man  is  the  struggle  of  the  ambition  of  the 
few  who  see  and  insist  upon  better  conditions,  with 
the  inertia  and  incompetence  of  the  many  who  have 
little  sight  and  less  imagination.  Ambition  must  use 
the  inert  mass — must  persuade  it,  if  possible,  must 
compel  it  by  trick  or  force  if  persuasion  fails.  But 
Palmer  and  Susan  Lenox  were,  naturally,  not  seeing  the 
thing  in  the  broad  but  only  as  it  applied  to  themselves. 

"I've  read  a  whole  lot  of  history  and  biography," 
Freddie  went  on,  "and  I've  thought  about  what  I  read 
and  about  what's  going  on  around  me.  I  tell  you  the 
world's  full  of  cant.  The  people  who  get  there  don't 
act  on  what  is  always  preached.  The  preaching  isn't 
all  lies — at  least,  I  think  not.  But  it  doesn't  fit  the 
facts  a  man  or  a  woman  has  got  to  meet." 

"I  realized  that  long  ago,"  said  Susan. 

"There's  a  saying  that  you  can't  touch  pitch  with 
out  being  defiled.  Well — you  can't  build  without 
touching  pitch — at  least  not  in  a  world  where  money's 
king  and  where  those  with  brains  have  to  live  off  of 
those  without  brains  by  making  'em  work  and  showing 

339 


SUSAN  LENOX 


'em  what  to  work  at.  It's  a  hell  of  a  world,  but  7 
didn't  get  it  up." 

"And  we've  got  to  live  in  it,"  said  she,  "and  get 
out  of  it  the  things  we  want  and  need." 

"That's  the  talk!"  cried  Palmer.  "I  see  you're 
'on.'  Now — to  make  a  long  story  short — you  and  I 
can  get  what  we  want.  We  can  help  each  other.  You 
were  better  born  than  I  am — you've  had  a  better  train 
ing  in  manners  and  dress  and  all  the  classy  sort  of 
things.  I've  got  the  money — and  brains  enough  to 
learn  with — and  I  can  help  you  in  various  ways.  So — 
I  propose  that  we  go  up  together." 

"We've  got — pasts,"  said  Susan. 

44 Who  hasn't  that  amounts  to  anything?  Mighty 
few.  No  one  that's  made  his  own  pile,  I'll  bet  you. 
I'm  in  a  position  to  do  favors  for  people — the  people 
we'd  need.  And  I'll  get  in  a  position  to  do  more  and 
more.  As  long  as  they  can  make  something  out  of  us 
— or  hope  to — do  you  suppose  they'll  nose  into  our 
pasts  and  root  things  up  that'd  injure  them  .as  much 
as  us?" 

"It  would  be  an  interesting  game,  wouldn't  it?"  said 
Susan. 

She  was  reflectively  observing  the  handsome, 
earnest  face  before  her — an  incarnation  of  intelligent 
ambition,  a  Freddie  Palmer  who  was  somehow  divest 
ing  himself  of  himself — was  growing  up — away  from 
the  rotten  soil  that  had  nourished  him — up  into  the 
air — .was  growing  strongly — yes,  splendidly! 

"And  we've  got  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to 
lose,"  pursued  he.  "We'd  not  be  adventurers,  you 
see.  Adventurers  are  people  who  haven't  any  money 
and  are  looking  round  to  try  to  steal  it.  We'd  have 
money.  So,  we'd  be  building  solid,  right  on  the 


SUSAN  LENOX 


rock."  The  handsome  young  man — the  strongest,  the 
most  intelligent,  the  most  purposeful  she  had  ever  met, 
except  possibly  Brent — looked  at  her  with  an  admiring 
tenderness  that  moved  her,  the  forlorn  derelict  adrift 
on  the  vast,  lonely,  treacherous  sea.  "The  reason  I've 
waited  for  you  to  invite  you  in  on  this  scheme  is  that  I 
tried  you  out  and  I  found  that  you  belong  to  the 
mighty  few  people  who  do  what  they  say  they'll  do, 
good  bargain  or  bad.  It'd  never  occur  to  you  to 
shuffle  out  of  trying  to  keep  your  word." 

"It  hasn't — so  far,"  said  Susan. 

"Well — that's  the  only  sort  of  thing  worth  talking 
about  as  morality.  Believe  me,  for  I've  been  through 
the  whole  game  from  chimney  pots  to  cellar  floor." 

"There's  another  thing,  too,"  said  the  girl. 

"What's  that?" 

"Not  to  injure  anyone  else." 

Palmer  shook  his  head  positively.  "It's  believing 
that  and  acting  on  it  that  has  kept  you  down  in  spite 
of  your  brains  and  looks." 

"That  I  shall  never  do,"  said  the  girl.  "It  may  be 
weakness — I  guess  it  is  weakness.  But — I  draw  the 
line  there." 

"But  I'm  not  proposing  that  you  injure  anyone— 
or  proposing  to  do  it  myself.  As  I  said,  I've  got  up 
where  I  can  afford  to  be  good  and  kind  and  all  that. 
And  I'm  willing  to  jump  you  up  over  the  stretch  of 
the  climb  that  can't  be  crossed  without  being — well, 
anything  but  good  and  kind." 

She  was  reflecting. 

"You'll  never  get  over  that  stretch  by  yourself. 
It'll  always  turn  you  back." 

"Just  what  do  you  propose?"  she  asked. 

It  gave   her   pleasure   to   see   the   keen   delight   her 


SUSAN  LENOX 


question,  with  its  implication  of  hope,  aroused  in  him. 
Said  he: 

"That  we  go  to  Europe  together  and  stay  over  there 
several  years — as  long  as  you  like — as  long  as  it's 
necessary.  Stay  till  our  pasts  have  disappeared — 
work  ourselves  in  with  the  right  sort  of  people.  You 
say  you're  not  married?" 

"Not  to  the  man  I'm  with." 

"To  somebody  else?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  was." 

"Well — that'll  be  looked  into  and  straightened  out. 
And  then  we'll  quietly  marry." 

Susan  laughed.  "You're  too  fast,"  said  she.  "I'll 
admit  I'm  interested.  I've  been  looking  for  a  road — 
one  that  doesn't  lead  toward  where  we've  come  from. 
And  this  is  the  first  road  that  has  offered.  But  I 
haven't  agreed  to  go  in  with  you  yet — haven't  even 
begun  to  think  it  over.  And  if  I  did  agree — which  I 
probably  won't — why,  still  I'd  not  be  willing  to  marry. 
That's  a  serious  matter.  I'd  want  to  be  very,  very 
sure  I  was  satisfied." 

Palmer  nodded,  with  a  return  of  the  look  of  admira 
tion.  "I  understand.  You  don't  promise  until  you 
intend  to  stick,  and  once  you've  promised  all  hell 
couldn't  change  you." 

"Another  thing — very  unfortunate,  too.  It  looks  to 
me  as  if  I'd  be  dependent  on  you  for  money." 

Freddie's  eyes  wavered.  "Oh,  we'd  never  quarrel 
about  that,"  said  he  with  an  attempt  at  careless  con 
fidence. 

"No,"  replied  she  quietly.  "For  the  best  of  reasons. 
I'd  not  consider  going  into  any  arrangement  where 
I'd  be  dependent  on  a  man  for  money.  I've  had  my 
experience.  I've  learned  my  lesson.  If  I  lived  with 

342 


SUSAN  LENOX 


you  several  years  in  the  sort  of  style  you've  suggested 
• — no,  not  several  years  but  a  few  months — you'd  have 
me  absolutely  at  your  mercy.  You'd  thought  of  that, 
hadn't  you?" 

His  smile  was  confession. 

"I'd  develop  tastes  for  luxuries  and  they'd  become 
necessities."  Susan  shook  her  head.  "No — that 
would  be  foolish — very  foolish." 

He  was  watching  her  so  keenly  that  his  expression 
was  covert  suspicion.  "What  do  you  suggest?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  what  you  suspect,"  replied  she,  amused.  "I'm 
not  making  a  play  for  a  gift  of  a  fortune.  I  haven't 
anything  to  suggest." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  he  turning  his  glass  slowly 
and  from  time  to  time  taking  a  little  of  the  champagne 
thoughtfully.  She  observed  him  with  a  quizzical  ex 
pression.  It  was  apparent  to  her  that  he  was  de 
bating  whether  he  would  be  making  a  fool  of  himself  if 
he  offered  her  an  independence  outright.  Finally  she 
said  : 

"Don't  worry,  Freddie.  I'd  not  take  it,  even  if  you 
screwed  yourself  up  to  the  point  of  offering  it." 

He  glanced  up  quickly  and  guiltily.  "Why  not?" 
he  said.  "You'd  be  practically  my  wife.  I  can  trust 
you.  You've  had  experience,  so  you  can't  blame  me 
for  hesitating.  Money  puts  the  devil  in  anybody  who 
gets  it — man  or  woman.  But  I'll  trust  you — "  he 
laughed — "since  I've  got  to." 

"No.  The  most  I'd  take  would  be  a  salary.  I'd  be 
a  sort  of  companion." 

"Anything  you  like,"  cried  he.  This  last  suspicion 
born  of  a  life  of  intimate  dealings  with  his  fellow-beings 
took  flight.  "It'd  have  to  be  a  big  salary  because 


SUSAN  LENOX 


you'd  have  to  dress  and  act  the  part.  What  do  you 
say?  Is  it  a  go?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  decide  now." 

"When?" 

She  reflected.     "I  can  tell  you  in  a  week." 

He  hesitated,  said,  "All  right— a  week." 

She  rose  to  go.  "I've  warned  you  the  chances  are 
against  my  accepting." 

"That's  because  you  haven't  looked  the  ground  over," 
replied  he,  rising. 

"Where  shall  I  send  you  word?" 

"I've  an  apartment  at  Sherry's  now." 

"Then — a  week  from  today." 

She  put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  she  mar 
veled  as  she  felt  a  tremor  in  that  steady  hand  of  his. 
But  his  voice  was  resolutely  careless  as  he  said,  "So 
long.  Don't  forget  how  much  I  want  or  need  you. 
And  if  you  do  forget  that,  think  of  the  advantages — 
seeing  the  world  with  plenty  of  money — and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  Where'll  you  get  such  another  chance?  You'll 
not  be  fool  enough  to  refuse." 

She  smiled,  said  as  she  went,  "You  may  remember  I 
used  to  be  something  of  a  fool." 

"But  that  was  some  time  ago.  You've  learned  a 
lot  since  then — surely." 

"We'll  see.  I've  become — I  think — a  good  deal  of 
a — of  a  New  Yorker." 

"That  means  frank  about  doing  what  the  rest  of  the 
world  does  under  a  stack  of  lies.  It's  a  lovely  world, 
isn't  it?" 

"If  I  had  made  it,"  laughed  Susan,  "I'd  not  own  up 
to  the  fact." 

She  laughed;  but  she  was  seeing  the  old  women  of 
the  slums — was  seeing  them  as  one  sees  in  the  magic 

344 


SUSAN  LENOX 


mirror  the  vision  of  one's  future  self.  And  on  the  way 
home  she  said  to  herself,  "It  was  a  good  thing  that  I 
was  arrested  today.  It  reminded  me.  It  warned  me. 
But  for  it,  I  might  have  gone  on  to  make  a  fool  of 
myself."  And  she  recalled  how  it  had  been  one  of 
Burlingham's  favorite  maxims  that  everything  is  for 
the  best,  for  those  who  know  how  to  use  it. 


XVIII 

SHE  wrote  Garvey  asking  an  appointment.  The 
reply  should  have  come  the  next  day  or  the  next 
day  but  one  at  the  farthest;  for  Garvey  had 
been  trained  by  Brent  to  the  supreme  courtesy  of 
promptness.  It  did  not  come  until  the  fourth  day ; 
before  she  opened  it  Susan  knew  about  what  she  would 
read — the  stupidly  obvious  attempt  to  put  off  facing 
her — the  cowardice  of  a  kind-hearted,  weak  fellow. 
She  really  had  her  answer — was  left  without  a  doubt 
for  hope  to  perch  upon.  But  she  wrote  again,  insisting 
so  sharply  that  he  came  the  following  day.  His  large, 
tell-tale  face  was  a  restatement  of  what  she  had  read 
in  his  delay  and  between  the  lines  of  his  note.  He  was 
effusively  friendly  with  a  sort  of  mortuary  suggestion, 
like  one  bearing  condolences,  that  tickled  her  sense  of 
humor,  far  though  her  heart  was  from  mirth. 

"Something  has  happened,"  began  she,  "that  makes 
it  necessary  for  me  to  know  when  Mr.  Brent  is  coming 
back." 

"Really,  Mrs.  Spenser " 

"Miss  Lenox,"  she  corrected. 

"Yes — Miss  Lenox,  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  really 
— in  my  position — I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Brent's 
plans — and  if  I  did,  I'd  not  be  at  liberty  to  speak  of 
them.  I  have  written  him  what  you  wrote  me  about 
the  check — and — and — that  is  all." 

"Mr.  Garvey,  is  he  ever — has  he "  Susan,  des 
perate,  burst  out  with  more  than  she  intended  to  say: 
"I  care  nothing  about  it,  one  way  or  the  other.  If 

346 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Mr.  Brent  is  politely  hinting  that  I  won't  do,  I've  a 
right  to  know  it.  I  have  a  chance  at  something  else. 
Can't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it — honestly  I  don't, 
Miss  Lenox,"  cried  he,  sweating  profusely. 

"You  put  an  accent  on  the  'know,'  "  said  Susan. 
"You  suspect  that  I'm  right,  don't  you?" 

"I've    no    ground    for    suspecting — that    is — no,    I 
haven't.      He  said  nothing  to  me — nothing.     But  he 
never  does.     He's  very  peculiar  and  uncertain  .  .  . 
and  I  don't  understand  him  at  all." 

"Isn't  this  his  usual  way  with  the  failures — his  way 
of  letting  them  down  easily?" 

Susan's  manner  was  certainly  light  and  cheerful,  an 
assurance  that  he  need  have  no  fear  of  hysterics  or 
despair  or  any  sort  of  scene  trying  to  a  soft  heart. 
But  Garvey  could  take  but  the  one  view  of  the  favor 
or  disfavor  of  the  god  of  his  universe.  He  looked  at 
her  like  a  dog  that  is  getting  a  whipping  from  a  friend. 
"Now,  Miss  Lenox,  you've  no  right  to  put  me  in  this 
painful " 

"That's  true,"  said  Susan,  done  since  she  had  got 
what  she  sought.  "I  shan't  say  another  word.  When 
Mr.  Brent  comes  back,  will  you  tell  him  I  sent  for  you 
to  ask  you  to  thank  him  for  me — and  say  to  him  that 
I  found  something  else  for  which  I  hope  I'm  better 
suited?" 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Garvey,  hysterically.  "I'm  de 
lighted.  And  I'm  sure  he  will  be,  too.  For  I'm  sure  he 
liked  you,  personally — and  I  must  say  I  was  surprised 
when  he  went.  But  I  must  not  say  that  sort  of  thing. 
Indeed,  I  know  nothing,  Miss  Lenox — I  assure 
you " 

"And  please  tell  him,"  interrupted  Susan,  "that  I'd 
347 


SUSAN  LENOX 


have  written  him  myself,  only  I  don't  want  to  bother 
him." 

"Oh,  no — no,  indeed.  Not  that,  Miss  Lenox.  I'm 
so  sorry.  But  I'm  only  the  secretary.  I  can't  say 
anything." 

It  was  some  time  before  Susan  could  get  rid  of  him, 
though  he  was  eager  to  be  gone.  He  hung  in  the 
doorway,  ejaculating  disconnectedly,  dropping  and 
picking  up  his  hat,  perspiring  profusely,  shaking  hands 
again  and  again,  and  so  exciting  her  pity  for  his  misery 
of  the  good-hearted  weak  that  she  was  for  the  moment 
forgetful  of  her  own  plight.  Long  before  he  went,  he 
had  greatly  increased  her  already  strong  belief  in 
Brent's  generosity  of  character — for,  thought  she,  he'd 
have  got  another  secretary  if  he  hadn't  been  too  kind 
to  turn  adrift  so  helpless  and  foolish  a  creature.  Well 
— he  should  have  no  trouble  in  getting  rid  of  her. 

She  was  seeing  little  of  Spenser  and  they  were  saying 
almost  nothing  to  each  other.  When  he  came  at  night, 
always  very  late,  she  was  in  bed  and  pretended  sleep. 
When  he  awoke,  she  got  breakfast  in  silence ;  they  read 
the  newspapers  as  they  ate.  And  he  could  not  spare 
the  time  to  come  to  dinner.  As  the  decisive  moment 
drew  near,  his  fears  dried  up  his  confident  volubility. 
He  changed  his  mind  and  insisted  on  her  coming  to  the 
theater  for  the  final  rehearsals.  But  "Shattered  Lives" 
was  not  the  sort  of  play  she  cared  for,  and  she  was 
wearied  by  the  profane  and  tedious  wranglings  of  the 
stage  director  and  the  authors,  by  the  stupidity  of 
the  actors  who  had  to  be  told  every  little  intonation 
and  gesture  again  and  again.  The  agitation,  the  labor 
seemed  grotesquely  out  of  proportion  to  the  triviality 
of  the  matter  at  issue.  At  the  first  night  she  sat  in  a 
box  from  which  Spenser,  in  a  high  fever  and  twitching 

348 


SUSAN  LENOX 


with  nervousness,  watched  the  play,  gliding  out  just 
before  the  lights  were  turned  up  for  the  intermission. 
The  play  went  better  than  she  had  expected,  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  audience  convinced  her  that  it  was  a 
success  before  the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  the  second  act. 
With  the  applause  that  greeted  the  chief  climax — the 
end  of  the  third  act — Spenser,  Sperry  and  Fitzalan 
were  convinced.  All  three  responded  to  curtain  calls. 
Susan  had  never  seen  Spenser  so  handsome,  and  she 
admired  the  calmness  and  the  cleverness  of  his  brief 
speech  of  thanks.  That  line  of  footlights  between 
them  gave  her  a  new  point  of  view  on  him,  made  her 
realize  how  being  so  close  to  his  weaknesses  had  ob 
scured  for  her  his  strong  qualities — for,  unfortunately, 
while  a  man's  public  life  is  determined  wholly  by  his 
strong  qualities,  his  intimate  life  depends  wholly  on  his 
weaknesses.  She  was  as  fond  of  him  as  she  had  ever 
been;  but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  feel  any  thrill 
approaching  love.  Why?  She  looked  at  his  fine  face 
and  manly  figure ;  she  recalled  how  many  good  qualities 
he  had.  Why  had  she  ceased  to  love  him?  She  thought 
perhaps  some  mystery  of  physical  lack  of  sympathy 
was  in  part  responsible;  then  there  was  the  fact  that 
she  could  not  trust  him.  With  many  women,  trust  is 
not  necessary  to  love;  on  the  contrary,  distrust  in 
flames  love.  It  happened  not  to  be  so  with  Susan  Lenox. 
"I  do  not  love  him.  I  can  never  love  him  again.  And 
when  he  uses  his  power  over  me,  I  shall  begin  to  dislike 
him."  The  lost  illusion !  The  dead  love !  If  she  could 
call  it  back  to  life !  But  no — there  it  lay,  coffined,  the 
gray  of  death  upon  its  features.  Her  heart  ached. 

After  the  play  Fitzalan  took  the  authors  and  the 
leading  lady,  Constance  Francklyn,  and  Miss  Lenox  to 
supper  in  a  private  room  at  Rector's.     This  was  Miss 
28  349 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Francklyn's  first  trial  in  a  leading  part.  She  had 
small  ability  as  an  actress,  having  never  risen  beyond 
the  primer  stage  of  mere  posing  and  declamation  in 
which  so  many  players  are  halted  by  their  vanity — the 
universal  human  vanity  that  is  content  with  small  tri 
umphs,  or  with  purely  imaginary  triumphs.  But  she 
had  a  notable  figure  of  the  lank,  serpentine  kind  and  a 
bad,  sensual  face  that  harmonized  with  it.  Especially 
in  artificial  light  she  had  an  uncanny  allure  of  the  ele 
mental,  the  wild  animal  in  the  jungle.  With  every  dis 
position  and  effort  to  use  her  physical  charms  to  fur 
ther  herself  she  would  not  have  been  still  struggling  at 
twenty-eight,  had  she  had  so  much  as  a  thimbleful  of 
intelligence. 

"Several  times,"  said  Sperry  to  Susan  as  they  crossed 
Long  Acre  together  on  the  way  to  Rector's,  "yes,  at 
least  half  a  dozen  times  to  my  knowledge,  Constance 
had  had  success  right  in  her  hands.  And  every  time 
she  has  gone  crazy  about  some  cheap  actor  or  sport 
and  has  thrown  it  away." 

"But  she'll  get  on  now,"  said  Susan. 

"Perhaps,"  was  Sperry's  doubting  reply.  "Of 
course,  she's  got  no  brains.  But  it  doesn't  take  brains 
to  act — that  is,  to  act  well  enough  for  cheap  machine- 
made  plays  like  this.  And  nowadays  playwrights  have 
learned  Hhat  it's  useless  to  try  to  get  actors  who  can 
act.  They  try  to  write  parts  that  are  actor-proof." 

"You  don't  like  your  play?"  said  Susan. 

"Like  it?  I  love  it.  Isn't  it  going  to  bring  me  in  a 
pot  of  money?  But  as  a  play" — Sperry  laughed.  "I 
know  Spenser  thinks  it's  great,  but — there's  only  one 
of  us  who  can  write  plays,  and  that's  Brent.  It  takes 
a  clever  man  to  write  a  clever  play.  But  it  takes  a 
genius  to  write  a  clever  play  that'll  draw  the  damn  fools 

350 


SUSAN  LENOX 


who  buy  theater  seats.  And  Robert  Brent  now  and 
then  does  the  trick.  How  are  you  getting  on  with 
your  ambition  for  a  career?" 

Susan  glanced  nervously  at  him.  The  question, 
coming  upon  the  heels  of  talk  about  Brent,  filled  her 
with  alarm  lest  Rod  had  broken  his  promise  and  had 
betrayed  her  confidence.  But  Sperry's  expression 
showed  that  she  was  probably  mistaken. 

"My  ambition?"  said  she.     "Oh— I've  given  it  up." 

"The  thought  of  work  was  too  much  for  you — 
eh?" 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

A  sardonic  grin  flitted  over  Sperry's  Punch-like  face. 
"The  more  I  see  of  women,  the  less  I  think  of  'em," 
said  he.  "But  I  suppose  the  men'd  be  lazy  and  worth 
less  too,  if  nature  had  given  'em  anything  that'd  sell 
or  rent.  .  .  .  Somehow  I'm  disappointed  in  you, 
though." 

That  ended  the  conversation  until  they  were  sitting 
down  at  the  table.  Then  Sperry  said: 

"Are  you  offended  by  my  frankness  a  while  ago?" 

"No,"  replied  Susan.  "The  contrary.  Some  day 
your  saying  that  may  help  me." 

"It's  quite  true,  there's  something  about  you — a 
look — a  manner — it  makes  one  feel  you  could  do  things 
if  you  tried." 

"I'm  afraid  that  'something'  is  a  fraud,"  said  she. 
No  doubt  it  was  that  something  that  had  misled  Brent 
— that  had  always  deceived  her  about  herself.  No,  she 
must  not  think  herself  a  self-deceived  dreamer.  Even 
if  it  was  so,  still  she  must  not  think  it.  She  must  say 
to  herself  over  and  over  again  "Brent  or  no  Brent,  I 
shall  get  on — I  shall  get  on"  until  she  had  silenced  the 
last  disheartening  doubt. 

351 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Miss  Francklyn,  with  Fitzalan  on  her  left  and  Spen 
ser  on  her  right,  was  seated  opposite  Susan.  About 
the  time  the  third  bottle  was  being  emptied  the  attempts 
of  Spenser  and  Constance  to  conceal  from  her  their 
doings  became  absurd.  Long  before  the  supper  was 
over  there  had  been  thrust  at  her  all  manner  of  proofs 
that  Spenser  was  again  untrue,  that  he  was  whirling 
madly  in  one  of  those  cyclonic  infatuations  which  soon 
wore  him  out  and  left  him  to  return  contritely  to  her. 
Sperry  admired  Susan's  manners  as  displayed  in  her 
unruffled  serenity — an  admiration  which  she  did  not  in 
the  least  deserve.  She  was  in  fact  as  deeply  interested 
as  she  seemed  in  his  discussion  of  plays  and  acting, 
illustrated  by  Brent's  latest  production.  By  the  time 
the  party  broke  up,  Susan  had  in  spite  of  herself  col 
lected  a  formidable  array  of  incriminating  evidence, 
including  the  stealing  of  one  of  Constance's  jeweled 
show  garters  by  Spenser  under  cover  of  the  tablecloth 
and  a  swift  kiss  in  the  hall  when  Constance  went  out 
for  a  moment  and  Spenser  presently  suspended  his 
drunken  praises  of  himself  as  a  dramatist,  and  ap 
pointed  himself  a  committee  to  see  what  had  become 
of  her. 

At  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  Spenser  said: 

"Susan,  you  and  Miss  Francklyn  take  a  taxicab. 
She'll  drop  you  at  our  place  on  her  way  home.  Fitz 
and  Sperry  and  I  want  one  more  drink." 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Sperry  savagely,  with  a  scowl 
at  Constance.  But  Fitzalan,  whose  arm  Susan  had 
seen  Rod  press,  remained  silent. 

"Come  on,  my  dear,"  cried  Miss  Francklyn,  smiling 
sweet  insolent  treachery  into  Susan's  face. 

Susan  smiled  sweetly  back  at  her.  As  she  was  leav 
ing  the  taxicab  in  Forty-fifth  Street,  she  said: 

352 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Send  Rod  home  by  noon,  won't  you?  And  don't 
tell  him  I  know." 

Miss  Francklyn,  who  had  been  drinking  greedily, 
began  to  cry.  Susan  laughed.  "Don't  be  a  silly,"  she 
urged.  "If  I'm  not  upset,  why  should  you  be?  And 
how  could  I  blame  you  two  for  getting  crazy  about 
each  other?  I  wouldn't  spoil  it  for  worlds.  I  want  to 
help  it  on." 

"Don't  you  love  him — really?"  cried  Constance,  face 
and  voice  full  of  the  most  thrilling  theatricalism. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  him,"  replied  Susan.  "We're  old, 
old  friends.  But  as  to  love — I'm  where  you'll  be  a  few 
months  from  now." 

Miss  Francklyn  dried  her  eyes.  "Isn't  it  the  devil !" 
she  exclaimed.  "Why  can't  it  last?" 

"Why,  indeed,"  said  Susan.  "Good  night — and  don't 
forget  to  send  him  by  twelve  o'clock."  And  she  hurried 
up  the  steps  without  waiting  for  a  reply. 

She  felt  that  the  time  for  action  had  again  come — 
that  critical  moment  which  she  had  so  often  in  the 
past  seen  come  and  had  let  pass  unheeded.  He  was  in 
love  with  another  woman;  he  was  prosperous,  assured 
of  a  good  income  for  a  long  time,  though  he  wrote  no 
more  successes.  No  need  to  consider  him.  For  herself, 
then — what?  Clearly,  there  could  be  no  future  for  her 
with  Rod.  Clearly,  she  must  go. 

Must  go — must  take  the  only  road  that  offered.  Up 
before  her — as  in  every  mood  of  deep  depression — rose 
the  vision  of  the  old  women  of  the  slums — the  solitary, 
bent,  broken  forms,  clad  in  rags,  feet  wrapped  in  rags 
— shuffling  along  in  the  gutters,  peering  and  poking 
among  filth,  among  garbage,  to  get  together  stuff  to 
sell  for  the  price  of  a  drink.  The  old  women  of  the 
tenements,  the  old  women  of  the  gutters,  the  old  women 

353 


SUSAN  LENOX 


drunk  and  dancing  as  the  lecherous-eyed  hunchback 
played  the  piano. 

She  must  not  this  time  wait  and  hesitate  and  hope ; 
this  time  she  must  take  the  road  that  offered — and 
since  it  must  be  taken  she  must  advance  along  it  as  if 
of  all  possible  roads  it  was  the  only  one  she  would 
have  freely  chosen. 

Yet  after  she  had  written  and  sent  off  the  note  to 
Palmer,  a  deep  sadness  enveloped  her — a  grief,  not  for 
Rod,  but  for  the  association,  the  intimacy,  their  life 
together,  its  sorrows  and  storms  perhaps  more  than 
the  pleasures  and  the  joys.  When  she  left  him  before, 
she  had  gone  sustained  by  the  feeling  that  she  was 
doing  it  for  him,  was  doing  a  duty.  Now,  she  was 
going  merely  to  save  herself,  to  further  herself.  Life, 
life  in  that  great  and  hard  school  of  practical  living, 
New  York,  had  given  her  the  necessary  hardiness  to 
go,  aided  by  Rod's  unfaithfulness  and  growing  un- 
congeniality.  But  not  while  she  lived  could  she  ever 
learn  to  be  hard.  She  would  do  what  she  must — she 
was  no  longer  a  fool.  But  she  could  not  help  sighing 
and  crying  a  little  as  she  did  it. 

It  was  not  many  minutes  after  noon  when  Spenser 
came.  He  looked  so  sheepish  and  uncomfortable  that 
Susan  thought  Constance  had  told  him.  But  his  open 
ing  sentence  of  apology  was: 

"I  took  too  many  nightcaps  and  Fitz  had  to  lug  me 
home  with  him." 

"Really?"  said  Susan.  "How  disappointed  Con 
stance  must  have  been!" 

Spenser  was  not  a  good  liar.  His  face  twisted  and 
twitched  so  that  Susan  laughed  outright.  "Why,  you 
look  like  a  caught  married  man,"  cried  she.  "You 
forget  we're  both  free." 

354 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Whatever  put  that  crazy  notion  in  your  head — • 
about  Miss  Francklyn?"  demanded  he. 

"When  you  take  me  or  anyone  for  that  big  a  fool, 
Rod,  you  only  show  how  foolish  you  yourself  are," 
said  she  with  the  utmost  good  humor.  "The  best  way 
to  find  out  how  much  sense  a  person  has  is  to  see  what 
kind  of  lies  he  thinks'll  deceive  another  person." 

"Now — don't  get  jealous,  Susie,"  soothed  he.  "You 
know  how  a  man  is." 

The  tone  was  correctly  contrite,  but  Susan  felt  un 
derneath  the  confidence  that  he  would  be  forgiven — 
the  confidence  of  the  egotist  giddied  by  a  triumph. 
Said  she: 

"Don't  you  think  mine's  a  strange  way  of  acting 
jealous?" 

"But  you're  a  strange  woman." 

Susan  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  I  suppose 
I  am,"  said  she.  "And  you'll  think  me  stranger  when 
I  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

He  started  up  in  a  panic.  And  the  fear  in  his  eyes 
pleased  her,  at  the  same  time  that  it  made  her  wince. 

She  nodded  slowly.     "Yes,  Rod — I'm  leaving." 

"I'll  drop  Constance,"  cried  he.  "I'll  have  her  put 
out  of  the  company." 

"No — go  on  with  her  till  you've  got  enough — or  she 
has." 

"I've  got  enough,  this  minute,"  declared  he  with 
convincing  energy  and  passion.  "You  must  know, 
dearest,  that  to  me  Constance — all  the  women  I've  ever 
seen — aren't  worth  your  little  finger.  You're  all  that 
they  are,  and  a  whole  lot  more  besides."  He  seized 
her  in  his  arms.  "You  wouldn't  leave  me — you  couldn't  I 
You  understand  how  men  are — how  they  get  these  fits 
of  craziness  about  a  pair  of  eyes  or  a  figure  or  some 

355 


SUSAN  LENOX 


trick  of  voice  or  manner.  But  that  doesn't  affect  the 
man's  heart.  I  love  you,  Susan.  I  adore  you." 

She  did  not  let  him  see  how  sincerely  he  had  touched 
her.  Her  eyes  were  of  their  deepest  violet,  but  he  had 
never  learned  that  sign.  She  smiled  mockingly;  the 
fingers  that  caressed  his  hair  were  trembling.  "We've 
tided  each  other  over,  Rod.  The  play's  a  success. 
You're  all  right  again — and  so  am  I.  Now's  the  time 
to  part." 

"Is  it  Brent,  Susie?" 

"I  quit  him  last  week." 

"There's  no  one  else.  You're  going  because  of  Con 
stance  !" 

She  did  not  deny.  "You're  free — and  so  am  I,"  said 
she  practically.  "I'm  going.  So — let's  part  sensibly. 
Don't  make  a  silly  scene." 

She  knew  how  to  deal  with  him — how  to  control  him 
through  his  vanity.  He  drew  away  from  her,  chilled 
and  sullen.  "If  you  can  live  through  it,  I  guess  I 
can,"  said  he.  "You're  making  a  damn  fool  of  your 
self — leaving  a  man  that's  fond  of  you — and  leaving 
when  he's  successful." 

"I  always  was  a  fool,  you  know,"  said  she.  She 
had  decided  against  explaining  to  him  and  so  opening 
up  endless  and  vain  argument.  It  was  enough  that  she 
saw  it  was  impossible  to  build  upon  or  with  him,  saw 
the  necessity  of  trying  elsewhere — unless  she  would 
risk — no,  invite — finding  herself  after  a  few  months, 
or  years,  back  among  the  drift,  back  in  the  underworld. 

He  gazed  at  her  as  she  stood  smiling  gently  at  him — 
smiling  to  help  her  hide  the  ache  at  her  heart,  the  terror 
before  the  vision  of  the  old  women  of  the  tenement 
gutters,  earning  the  wages,  not  of  sin,  not  of  vice,  not 
of  stupidity,  but  of  indecision,  of  overhopefulness — of 

858 


SUSAN  LENOX 


weakness.  Here  was  the  kind  of  smile  that  hurts  worse 
than  tears,  that  takes  the  place  of  tears  and  sobs  and 
moans.  But  he  who  had  never  understood  her  did  not 
understand  her  now.  Her  smile  infuriated  his  vanity. 
"You  can  laugh!"  he  sneered.  "Well— go  to  the  filth 
where  you  belong!  You  were  born  for  it."  And  he 
flung  out  of  the  room,  went  noisily  down  the  stairs. 
She  heard  the  front  door's  distant  slam;  it  seemed  to 
drop  her  into  a  chair.  She  sat  there  all  crouched  to 
gether  until  the  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  two.  This 
roused  her  hastily  to  gather  into  her  trunk  such  of  her 
belongings  as  she  had  not  already  packed.  She  sent 
for  a  cab.  The  man  of  all  work  carried  down  the  trunk 
and  put  it  on  the  box.  Dressed  in  a  simple  blue  cos 
tume  as  if  for  traveling,  she  entered  the  cab  and  gave 
the  order  to  drive  to  the  Grand  Central  Station. 

At  the  corner  she  changed  the  order  and  was  pres 
ently  entering  the  Beaux  Arts  restaurant  where  she  had 
asked  Freddie  to  meet  her.  He  was  there,  smoking 
calmly  and  waiting.  At  sight  of  her  he  rose.  "You'll 
have  lunch?"  said  he. 

"No,  thanks." 

"A  small  bottle  of  champagne?" 

"Yes— I'm  rather  tired." 

He  ordered  the  champagne.  "And,"  said  he,  "it'll 
be  the  real  thing — which  mighty  few  New  Yorkers  get 
— even  at  the  best  places."  When  it  came  he  sent  the 
waiter  away  and  filled  the  glasses  himself.  He  touched 
the  brim  of  his  glass  to  the  bottom  of  hers.  "To  the 
new  deal,"  said  he. 

She  smiled  and  nodded,  and  emptied  the  glass.  Sud 
denly  it  came  to  her  why  she  felt  so  differently  toward 
him.  She  saw  the  subtle,  yet  radical  change  that  al 
ways  transforms  a  man  of  force  of  character  when  his 

357 


SUSAN  LENOX 


position  in  the  world  notably  changes.  This  man  be 
fore  her,  so  slightly  different  in  physical  characteristics 
from  the  man  she  had  fled,  was  wholly  different  in  ex 
pression. 

"When  shall  we  sail?"  asked  he.     "Tomorrow?" 

"First — there's  the  question  of  money,"  said  she. 

He  was  much  amused.  "Still  worrying  about  your 
independence." 

"No,"  replied  she.  "I've  been  thinking  it  out,  and 
I  don't  feel  any  anxiety  about  that.  I've  changed  my 
scheme  of  life.  I'm  going  to  be  sensible  and  practice 
what  life  has  taught  me.  It  seems  there's  only  one  way 
for  a  woman  to  get  up.  Through  some  man." 

Freddie  nodded.  "By  marriage  or  otherwise,  but 
always  through  a  man." 

"So  I've  discovered,"  continued  she.  "So,  I'm  going 
to  play  the  game.  And  I  think  I  can  win  now.  With 
the  aid  of  what  I'll  learn  and  with  the  chances  I'll 
have,  I  can  keep  my  feeling  of  independence.  You 
see,  if  you  and  I  don't  get  on  well  together,  I'll 
be  able  to  look  out  for  myself.  Something'll  turn 
up." 

"Or — somebody — eh  ?" 

"Or  somebody." 

"That's  candid." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  be  candid?  But  even  if 
you  don't,  I've  got  to  be." 

"Yes — truth — especially  disagreeable  truth — is  your 
long  suit,"  said  he.  "Not  that  I'm  kicking.  I'm  glad 
you  went  straight  at  the  money  question.  We  can 
settle  it  and  never  think  of  it  again.  And  neither  of 
us  will  be  plotting  to  take  advantage  of  the  other,  or 
fretting  for  fear  the  other  is  plotting.  Sometimes  I 
think  nearly  all  the  trouble  in  this  world  comes  through 

358 


SUSAN  LENOX 


failure  to  have  a  clear  understanding  about  money 
matters." 

Susan  nodded.  Said  she  thoughtfully,  "I  guess  that's 
why  I  came — one  of  the  main  reasons.  You  are  won 
derfully  sensible  and  decent  about  money." 

"And  the  other  chap  isn't?" 

"Oh,  yes — and  no.  He  likes  to  make  a  woman  feel 
dependent.  He  thinks — but  that  doesn't  matter.  He's 
all  right." 

"Now — for  our  understanding  with  each  other,"  said 
Palmer.  "You  can  have  whatever  you  want.  The 
other  day  you  said  you  wanted  some  sort  of  a  salary. 
But  if  you've  changed " 

"No— that's  what  I  want." 

"So  much  a  year?" 

"So  much  a  week,"  replied  she.  "I  want  to  feel,  and 
I  want  you  to  feel,  that  we  can  call  it  off  at  any  time 
on  seven  days'  notice." 

"But  that  isn't  what  I  want,"  said  he — and  she, 
watching  him  closely  if  furtively,  saw  the  strong  lines 
deepen  round  his  mouth. 

She  hesitated.  She  was  seeing  the  old  woman's  dance 
hall,  was  hearing  the  piano  as  the  hunchback  played 
and  the  old  horrors  reeled  about,  making  their  palsy 
rhythmic.  She  was  seeing  this,  yet  she  dared.  "Then 
you  don't  want  me,"  said  she,  so  quietly  that  he  could 
not  have  suspected  her  agitation.  Never  had  her 
habit  of  concealing  her  emotion  been  so  useful  to  her. 

He  sat  frowning  at  his  glass — debating.  Finally  he 
said : 

"I  explained  the  other  day  what  I  was  aiming  for. 
Such  an  arrangement  as  you  suggest  wouldn't  help. 
You  see  that?" 

"It's  all  I  can  do — at  present,"  replied  she  firmly. 
359 


SUSAN  LENOX 


And  she  was  now  ready  to  stand  or  fall  by  that  decision. 
She  had  always  accepted  the  other  previous  terms — 
or  whatever  terms  fate  offered.  Result — each  time, 
disaster.  She  must  make  no  more  fatal  blunders.  This 
time,  her  own  terms  or  not  at  all. 

He  was  silent  a  long  time.  She  knew  she  had  con 
vinced  him  that  her  terms  were  final.  So,  his  delay 
could  only  mean  that  he  was  debating  whether  to  accept 
or  to  go  his  way  and  leave  her  to  go  hers.  At  last  he 
laughed  and  said: 

"You've  become  a  true  New  Yorker.  You  know  how 
to  drive  a  hard  bargain."  He  looked  at  her  admir 
ingly.  "You  certainly  have  got  courage.  I  happen  to 
know  a  lot  about  your  affairs.  I've  ways  of  finding  out 
things.  And  I  know  you'd  not  be  here  if  you  hadn't 
broken  with  the  other  fellow  first.  So,  if  I  turned  your 
proposition  down  you'd  be  up  against  it — wouldn't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "But — I  won't  in  any  circumstances 
tie  myself.  I  must  be  free." 

"You're  right,"  said  he.  "And  I'll  risk  your  stick 
ing.  I'm  a  good  gambler." 

"If  I  were  bound,  but  didn't  want  to  stay,  would 
I  be  of  much  use?" 

"Of  no  use.  You  can  quit  on  seven  minutes'  notice, 
instead  of  seven  days." 

"And  you,  also,"  said  she. 

Laughingly  they  shook  hands.  She  began  to  like 
him  in  a  new  and  more  promising  way.  Here  was  a 
man,  who  at  least  was  cast  in  a  big  mold.  Nothing 
small  and  cheap  about  him — and  Brent  had  made  small 
cheap  men  forever  intolerable  to  her.  Yes,  here  was  a 
man  of  the  big  sort;  and  a  big  man  couldn't  possibly 
be  a  bad  man.  No  matter  how  many  bad  things  he 

360 


SUSAN  LENOX 


might  do,  he  would  still  be  himself,  at  least,  a  scorner 
of  the  pettiness  and  sneakiness  and  cowardice  insep 
arable  from  villainy. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "let's  settle  the  last  detail. 
How  much  a  week?  How  would  five  hundred  strike 
you?" 

"That's  more  than  twelve  times  the  largest  salary  I 
ever  got.  It's  many  times  as  much  as  I  made  in 
the " 

"No  matter,"  he  hastily  interposed.  "It's  the  least 
you  can  hold  down  the  job  on.  You've  got  to  spend 
money — for  clothes  and  so  on." 

"Two  hundred  is  the  most  I  can  take,"  said  she. 
"It's  the  outside  limit." 

He  insisted,  but  she  remained  firm.  "I  will  not  ac 
custom  myself  to  much  more  than  I  see  any  prospect 
of  getting  elsewhere,"  explained  she.  "Perhaps  later 
on  I'll  ask  for  an  increase — later  on,  when  I  see  how 
things  are  going  and  what  my  prospects  elsewhere 
would  be.  But  I  must  begin  modestly." 

"Well,  let  it  go  at  two  hundred  for  the  present. 
I'll  deposit  a  year's  salary  in  a  bank,  and  you  can 
draw  against  it.  Is  that  satisfactory?  You  don't 
want  me  to  hand  you  two  hundred  dollars  every  Satur 
day,  do  you?" 

"No.     That  would  get  on  my  nerves,"  said  she. 

"Now— it's  aU  settled.    When  shall  we  sail?" 

"There's  a  girl  I've  got  to  look  up  before  I 
go." 

"Maud?  You  needn't  bother  about  her.  She's  mar 
ried  to  a  piker  from  up  the  state — a  shoe  manufacturer. 
She's  got  a  baby,  and  is  fat  enough  to  make  two  or 
three  like  what  she  used  to  be." 

"No,  not  Maud.     One  you  don't  know." 
"361 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  hoped  we  could  sail  tomorrow.  Why  not  take  a 
taxi  and  go  after  her  now?" 

"It  may  be  a  long  search." 

"She's  a. ?"  He  did  not  need  to  finish  his  sen 
tence  in  order  to  make  himself  understood. 

Susan  nodded. 

"Oh,  let  her " 

"I  promised,"  interrupted  she. 

"Then — of  course."  Freddie  drew  from  his  trous 
ers  pocket  a  huge  roll  of  bills.  Susan  smiled  at  this 
proof  that  he  still  retained  the  universal  habit  of 
gamblers,  politicians  and  similar  loose  characters  of 
large  income,  precariously  derived.  He  counted  off 
three  hundreds  and  four  fifties  and  held  them  out  to  her. 
"Let  me  in  on  it,"  said  he. 

Susan  took  the  money  without  hesitation.  She  was 
used  to  these  careless  generosities  of  the  men  of  that 
class — generosities  passing  with  them  and  with  the 
unthinking  for  evidences  of  goodness  of  heart,  when 
in  fact  no  generosity  has  any  significance  whatever  be 
yond  selfish  vanity  unless  it  is  a  sacrifice  of  necessities 
— real  necessities. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  need  money,"  said  she.  "But  I 
may." 

"You've  got  a  trunk  and  a  bag  on  the  cab  outside," 
he  went  on.  "I've  told  them  at  Sherry's  that  I'm  to 
be  married." 

Susan  flushed.  She  hastily  lowered  her  eyes.  But 
she  need  not  have  feared  lest  he  should  suspect  the 
cause  of  the  blush  ...  a  strange,  absurd  resentment 
of  the  idea  that  she  could  be  married  to  Freddie  Pal 
mer.  Live  with  him — yes.  But  marry — now  that  it 
was  thus  squarely  presented  to  her,  she  found  it  un 
thinkable.  She  did  not  pause  to  analyze  this  feeling, 


SUSAN  LENOX 


indeed  could  not  have  analyzed  it,  had  she  tried.  It 
was,  however,  a  most  interesting  illustration  of  how  she 
had  been  educated  at  last  to  look  upon  questions  of 
sex  as  a  man  looks  on  them.  She  was  like  the  man 
who  openly  takes  a  mistress  whom  he  in  no  circum 
stances  would  elevate  to  the  position  of  wife. 

"So,"  he  proceeded,  "you  might  as  well  move  in  at 
Sherry's." 

"No,"  objected  she.  "Let's  not  begin  the  new  deal 
until  we  sail." 

The  wisdom  of  this  was  obvious.  "Then  we'll  take 
your  things  over  to  the  Manhattan  Hotel,"  said  he. 
"And  we'll  start  the  search  from  there." 

But  after  registering  at  the  Manhattan  as  Susan 
Lenox,  she  started  out  alone.  She  would  not  let  him 
look  in  upon  any  part  of  her  life  which  she  could  keep 
veiled. 


XIX 

SHE  left  the  taxicab  at  the  corner  of  Grand  Street 
and  the  Bowery,  and  plunged  into  her  former 
haunts  afoot.  Once  again  she  had  it  forced  upon 
her  how  meaningless  in  the  life  history  are  the  words 
"time"  and  "space."  She  was  now  hardly  any  distance, 
as  measurements  go,  from  her  present  world,  and  she 
had  lived  here  only  a  yesterday  or  so  ago.  Yet  what  an 
infinity  yawned  between !  At  the  Delancey  Street  apart 
ment  house  there  was  already  a  new  janitress,  and  the 
kinds  of  shops  on  the  ground  floor  had  changed.  Only 
after  two  hours  of  going  up  and  down  stairs,  of  knock 
ing  at  doors,  of  questioning  and  cross-questioning,  did 
she  discover  that  Clara  had  moved  to  Allen  Street,  to 
the  tenement  in  which  Susan  herself  had  for  a  few 
weeks  lived — those  vague,  besotted  weeks  of  despair. 

When  we  go  out  into  the  streets  with  bereavement  in 
mind,  we  see  nothing  but  people  dressed  in  mourning. 
And  a  similar  thing  occurs,  whatever  the  emotion  that 
oppresses  us.  It  would  not  have  been  strange  if  Susan, 
on  the  way  to  Allen  Street  afoot,  had  seen  only  women 
of  the  streets,  for  they  swarm  in  every  great  thorough 
fare  of  our  industrial  cities.  They  used  to  come  out 
only  at  night.  But  with  the  passing  of  the  feeling 
against  them  that  existed  when  they  were  a  rare,  un 
familiar,  mysteriously  terrible  minor  feature  of  life, 
they  issue  forth  boldly  by  day,  like  all  the  other  classes, 
making  a  living  as  best  they  can.  But  on  that  day 
Susan  felt  as  if  she  were  seeing  only  the  broken  down 
and  cast-out  creatures  of  the  class — the  old  women,  old 

364 


SUSAN  LENOX 


in  body  rather  than  in  years,  picking  in  the  gutters, 
fumbling  in  the  garbage  barrels,  poking  and  peering 
everywhere  for  odds  and  ends  that  might  pile  up  into 
the  price  of  a  glass  of  the  poison  sold  in  the  barrel 
houses.  The  old  women — the  hideous,  lonely  old  women 
— and  the  diseased,  crippled  children,  worse  off  than 
the  cats  and  the  dogs,  for  cat  and  dog  were  not  com 
pelled  to  wear  filth-soaked  rags.  Prosperous,  civilized 
New  York ! 

A  group  of  these  children  were  playing  some  rough 
game,  in  imitation  of  their  elders,  that  was  causing 
several  to  howl  with  pain.  She  heard  a  woman,  being 
shown  about  by  a  settlement  worker  or  some  such 
person,  say: 

"Really,  not  at  all  badly  dressed — for  street  games. 
I  must  confess  I  don't  see  signs  of  the  misery  they  talk 
so  much  about." 

A  wave  of  fury  passed  through  Susan.  She  felt  like 
striking  the  woman  full  in  her  vain,  supercilious, 
patronizing  face — striking  her  and  saying:  "You 
smug  liar!  What  if  you  had  to  wear  such  clothes  on 
that  fat,  overfed  body  of  yours!  You'd  realize  then 
how  filthy  they  are !" 

She  gazed  in  horror  at  the  Allen  Street  house.  Was 
it  possible  that  she  had  lived  there?  In  the  filthy  door 
way  sat  a  child  eating  a  dill  pickle — a  scrawny,  raggecf 
little  girl  with  much  of  her  hair  eaten  out  by  the  mange. 
She  recalled  this  little  girl  as  the  formerly  pretty  and 
lively  youngster,  the  daughter  of  the  janitress.  She 
went  past  the  child  without  disturbing  her,  knocked  at 
the  janitress'  door.  It  presently  opened,  disclosing  in 
a  small  and  foul  room  four  prematurely  old  women,  all 
in  the  family  way,  two  with  babies  in  arms.  One  of 
these  was  the  janitress.  Though  she  was  not  a  Jewess, 

365 


SUSAN  LENOX 


she  was  wearing  one  of  the  wigs  assumed  by  orthodox 
Jewish  women  when  they  marry.  She  stared  at  Susan 
with  not  a  sign  of  recognition. 

"I  am  looking  for  Miss  Clara,"  said  Susan. 

The  janitress  debated,  shifted  her  baby  from  one 
arm  to  the  other,  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  other 
women.  They  shook  their  heads ;  she  looked  at  Susan 
and  shook  her  head.  "There  ain't  a  Clara,"  said  she. 
"Perhaps  she's  took  another  name?" 

"Perhaps,"  conceded  Susan.  And  she  described 
Clara  and  the  various  dresses  she  had  had.  At  the 
account  of  one  with  flounces  on  the  skirts  and  lace 
puffs  in  the  sleeves,  the  youngest  of  the  women  showed 
a  gleam  of  intelligence.  "You  mean  the  girl  with  the 
cancer  of  the  breast,"  said  she. 

Susan  remembered.  She  could  not  articulate;  she 
nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  janitress.  "She  had  the  third 
floor  back,  and  was  always  kicking  because  Mrs.  Pfister 
kept  a  guinea  pig  for  her  rheumatism  and  the  smell 
came  through." 

"Has  she  gone?"  asked  Susan. 

"Couple  of  weeks." 

"Where?" 

The  janitress  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The  other 
women  shrugged  their  shoulders.  Said  the  janitress: 

"Her  feller  stopped  coming.  The  cancer  got  awful 
bad.  I've  saw  a  good  many — they're  quite  plentiful 
down  this  way.  I  never  see  a  worse'n  hers.  She  didn't 
have  no  money.  Up  to  the  hospital  they  tried  a  new 
cure  on  her  that  made  her  gallopin'  worse.  The  day 
before  I  was  going  to  have  to  go  to  work  and  put  her 
out— she  left." 

"Can't  you  give  me  any  idea?"  urged  Susan. 
366 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"She  didn't  take  her  things,"  said  the  janitress 
meaningly.  "Not  a  stitch." 

"The— the  river?" 

The  janitress  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "She  always 
said  she  would,  and  I  guess " 

Again  the  fat,  stooped  shoulders  lifted  and  lowered. 
"She  was  most  crazy  with  pain." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Susan  murmured, 
"Thank  you,"  and  went  back  to  the  hall.  The  house 
was  exhaling  a  frightful  stench — the  odor  of  cheap 
kerosene,  of  things  that  passed  there  for  food,  of  ani 
mals  human  and  lower,  of  death  and  decay.  On  her 
way  out  she  dropped  a  dollar  into  the  lap  of  the  little 
girl  with  the  mange.  A  parrot  was  shrieking  from  an 
upper  window.  On  the  topmost  fire  escape  was  a  row 
of  geraniums  blooming  sturdily.  Her  taxicab  had 
moved  up  the  street,  pushed  out  of  place  by  a  hearse — 
a  white  hearse,  with  polished  mountings,  the  horses 
caparisoned  in  white  netting,  and  tossing  white  plumes. 
A  baby's  funeral — this  mockery  of  a  ride  in  state  after 
a  brief  life  of  squalor.  It  was  summer,  and  the  babies 
were  dying  like  lambs  in  the  shambles.  In  winter  the 
grown  people  were  slaughtered;  in  summer  the  chil 
dren.  Across  the  street,  a  few  doors  up,  the  city  dead 
wagon  was  taking  away  another  body — in  a  plain  pine 
box — to  the  Potter's  Field  where  find  their  way  for  the 
final  rest  one  in  every  ten  of  the  people  of  the  rich 
and  splendid  city  of  New  York. 

Susan  hurried  into  her  cab.     "Drive  fast,"  she  said. 

When  she  came  back  to  sense  of  her  surroundings 
she  was  flying  up  wide  and  airy  Fifth  Avenue  with  gor 
geous  sunshine  bathing  its  palaces,  with  wealth  and 
fashion  and  ease  all  about  her.  Her  dear  City  of  the 
Sun !  But  it  hurt  her  now,  was  hateful  to  look  upon. 

367 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  closed  her  eyes ;  her  life  in  the  slums,  her  life  when 
she  was  sharing  the  lot  that  is  really  the  lot  of  the 
human  race  as  a  race,  passed  before  her — its  sights  and 
sounds  and  odors,  its  hideous  heat,  its  still  more  hide 
ous  cold,  its  contacts  and  associations,  its  dirt  and 
disease  and  degradation.  And  through  the  roar  of  the 
city  there  came  to  her  a  sound,  faint  yet  intense — like 
the  still,  small  voice  the  prophet  heard — but  not  the 
voice  of  God,  rather  the  voice  of  the  multitude  of  aching 
hearts,  aching  in  hopeless  poverty — hearts  of  men,  of 
women,  of  children 

The  children !  The  multitudes  of  children  with  hearts 
that  no  sooner  begin  to  beat  than  they  begin  to  ache. 
She  opened  her  eyes  to  shut  out  these  sights  and  that 
sound  of  heartache. 

She  gazed  round,  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  She 
had  almost  been  afraid  to  look  round  lest  she  should 
find  that  her  escape  had  been  only  a  dream.  And 
now  the  road  she  had  chosen — or,  rather,  the  only  road 
she  could  take — the  road  with  Freddie  Palmer — seemed 
attractive,  even  dazzling.  What  she  could  not  like, 
she  would  ignore — and  how  easily  she,  after  her  ex 
perience,  could  do  that!  What  she  could  not  ignore 
she  would  tolerate — would  compel  herself  to  like. 

Poor  Clara ! — Happy  Clara ! — better  off  in  the  dregs 
of  the  river  than  she  had  ever  been  in  the  dregs  of  New 
York.  She  shuddered.  Then,  as  so  often,  the  sense  of 
the  grotesque  thrust  in,  as  out  of  place  as  jester  in 
cap  and  bells  at  a  bier — and  she  smiled  sardonically. 
"Why,"  thought  she,  "in  being  squeamish  about  Fred 
die  I'm  showing  that  I'm  more  respectable  than  the 
respectable  women.  There's  hardly  one  of  them  that 
doesn't  swallow  worse  doses  with  less  excuse  or  no  ex 
cuse  at  all — and  without  so  much  as  a  wry  face." 

368 


XX 

IN  the  ten  days  on  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediter 
ranean  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Palmer,  as  the  passenger 
list  declared  them,  planned  the  early  stages  of 
their  campaign.  They  must  keep  to  themselves,  must 
make  no  acquaintances,  no  social  entanglements  of  any 
kind,  until  they  had  effected  the  exterior  transforma 
tion  which  was  to  be  the  first  stride — and  a  very  long 
one,  they  felt — toward  the  conquest  of  the  world  .that 
commands  all  the  other  worlds.  Several  men  aboard 
knew  Palmer  slightly — knew  him  vaguely  as  a  big  pol 
itician  and  contractor.  They  had  a  hazy  notion 
that  he  was  reputed  to  have  been  a  thug  and  a 
grafter.  But  New  Yorkers  have  few  prejudices  except 
against  guilelessness  and  failure.  They  are  well  aware 
that  the  wisest  of  the  wise  Hebrew  race  was  never  more 
sagacious  than  when  he  observed  that  "he  who  hasteth 
to  be  rich  shall  not  be  innocent."  They  are  too  well 
used  to  unsavory  pasts  to  bother  much  about  that  kind 
of  odor;  and  where  in  the  civilized  world — or  in  that 
which  is  not  civilized — is  there  an  odor  from  reputation 
— or  character — whose  edge  is  not  taken  off  by  the 
strong,  sweet,  hypnotic  perfume  of  money?  Also,  Pal 
mer's  appearance  gave  the  lie  direct  to  any  scandal 
about  him.  It  could  not  be — it  simply  could  not  be — 
that  a  man  of  such  splendid  physical  build,  a  man  with 
a  countenance  so  handsome,  had  ever  been  a  low, 
wicked  fellow!  Does  not  the  devil  always  at  once  ex 
hibit  his  hoofs,  horns,  tail  and  malevolent  smile,  that 
all  men  may  know  who  and  what  he  is  ?  A  frank,  manly 

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young  leader  of  men — that  was  the  writing  on  his  coun 
tenance.  And  his  Italian  blood  put  into  his  good  looks 
an  ancient  and  aristocratic  delicacy  that  made  it  in 
credible  that  he  was  of  low  origin.  He  spoke  good 
English,  he  dressed  quietly;  he  did  not  eat  with  his 
knife;  he  did  not  retire  behind  a  napkin  to  pick  his 
teeth,  but  attended  to  them  openly,  if  necessity  com 
pelled — and  splendid  teeth  they  were,  set  in  a  wide, 
clean  mouth,  notably  attractive  for  a  man's.  No, 
Freddie  Palmer's  past  would  not  give  him  any  trouble 
whatever;  in  a  few  years  it  wauld  be  forgotten,  would 
be  romanced  about  as  the  heroic  struggles  of  a  typical 
American  rising  from  poverty. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Freddie,  "I  had  sense  enough  not 
to  get  a  jail  smell  on  me!" 

Susan  colored  painfully — and  Palmer,  the  sensitive, 
colored  also.  But  he  had  the  tact  that  does  not  try 
to  repair  a  blunder  by  making  a  worse  one;  he  pre 
tended  not  to  see  Susan's  crimson  flush. 

Her  past  would  not  be  an  easy  matter — if  it  should 
ever  rise  to  face  her  publicly.  Therefore  it  must  not 
rise  till  Freddie  and  she  were  within  the  walls  of  the 
world  they  purposed  to  enter  by  stealth,  and  had  got 
themselves  well  intrenched.  Then  she  would  be  Susan 
Lenox  of  Sutherland,  Indiana,  who  had  come  to  New 
York  to  study  for  the  stage  and,  after  many  trials 
from  all  of  which  she  had  emerged  with  unspotted  vir 
tue,  whatever  vicious  calumny  might  in  envy  say,  had 
captured  the  heart  and  the  name  of  the  handsome,  rich 
young  contractor.  There  would  be  nasty  rumors, 
dreadful  stories,  perhaps.  But  in  these  loose  and  cyni 
cal  days,  with  the  women  more  and  more  audacious  and 
independent,  with  the  universal  craving  for  luxury  be 
yond  the  reach  of  laboriously  earned  incomes,  with  mar- 

370 


SUSAN  LENOX 


riage  decaying  in  city  life  among  the  better  classes — - 
in  these  easy-going  days,  who  was  not  suspected,  hinted 
about,  attacked?  And  the  very  atrociousness  of  the 
stories  would  prevent  their  being  believed.  One  glance 
at  Susan  would  be  enough  to  make  doubters  laugh  at 
their  doubts. 

The  familiar  types  of  fast  women  of  all  degrees  come 
from  the  poorest  kinds  of  farms  and  from  the  tene 
ments.  In  America,  practically  not  until  the  panics 
and  collapses  of  recent  years  which  have  tumbled  an 
other  and  better  section  of  the  middle  class  into  the 
abyss  of  the  underworld — not  until  then  did  there  ap 
pear  in  the  city  streets  and  houses  of  ill  repute  any 
considerable  number  of  girls  from  good  early  surround 
ings.  Before  that  time,  the  clamor  for  luxury — the 
luxury  that  civilization  makes  as  much  a  necessity  as 
food — had  been  satisfied  more  or  less  by  the  incomes  of 
the  middle  class ;  and  any  girl  of  that  class,  with  physi 
cal  charm  and  shrewdness  enough  to  gain  a  living  as 
outcast  woman,  was  either  supported  at  home  or  got 
a  husband  able  to  give  her  at  least  enough  of  what  her 
tastes  craved  to  keep  her  in  the  ranks  of  the  reputable. 
Thus  Susan's  beauty  of  refinement,  her  speech  and  man 
ner  of  the  lady,  made  absurd  any  suggestion  that  she 
could  ever  have  been  a  fallen  woman.  The  crimson 
splash  of  her  rouged  lips  did  not  suggest  the  cocotte, 
but  the  lady  with  a  dash  of  gayety  in  her  temperament. 
This,  because  of  the  sweet,  sensitive  seriousness  of  her 
small,  pallid  face  with  its  earnest  violet-gray  eyes  and 
its  frame  of  abundant  dark  hair,  simply  and  gracefully 
arranged.  She  was  of  the  advance  guard  of  a  type 
which  the  swift  downfall  of  the  middle  class,  the  in 
creasing  intelligence  and  restlessness  and  love  of  luxury 
among  women,  and  the  decay  of  formal  religion  with  its 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


exactions  of  chastity  as  woman's  one  diamond-fine 
jewel,  are  now  making  familiar  in  every  city.  The  de 
mand  for  the  luxurious  comfort  which  the  educated 
regard  as  merely  decent  existence  is  far  outstripping 
the  demand  for,  and  the  education  of,  women  in  lucra 
tive  occupations  other  than  prostitution. 

Luckily  Susan  had  not  been  arrested  under  her  own 
name;  there  existed  no  court  record  which  could  be 
brought  forward  as  proof  by  some  nosing  newspaper. 

Susan  herself  marveled  that  there  was  not  more  trace 
of  her  underworld  experience  in  her  face  and  in  her 
mind.  She  could  not  account  for  it.  Yet  the  matter 
was  simple  enough  to  one  viewing  it  from  the  outside. 
It  is  what  we  think,  what  we  feel  about  ourselves,  that 
makes  up  our  expression  of  body  and  soul.  And  never 
in  her  lowest  hour  had  her  soul  struck  its  flag  and  sur 
rendered  to  the  idea  that  she  was  a  fallen  creature. 
She  had  a  temperament  that  estimated  her  acts  not  as 
right  and  wrong  but  as  necessity.  Men,  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  might  regard  her  as  nothing  but  sex  symbol ; 
she  regarded  herself  as  an  intelligence.  And  the  filth 
slipped  from  her  and  could  not  soak  in  to  change  the 
texture  of  her  being.  She  had  no  more  the  feeling  or 
air  of  the  cocotte  than  has  the  married  woman  who 
lives  with  her  husband  for  a  living.  Her  expression, 
her  way  of  looking  at  her  fellow  beings  and  of  meeting 
their  looks,  was  that  of  the  woman  of  the  world  who 
is  for  whatever  reason  above  that  slavery  to  opinion, 
that  fear  of  being  thought  bold  or  forward  which 
causes  women  of  the  usual  run  to  be  sensitive  about 
staring  or  being  stared  at.  Sometimes — in  cocottes,  in 
stage  women,  in  fashionable  women — this  expression  is 
self-conscious,  or  supercilious.  It  was  not  so  with 
Susan,  for  she  had  little  self-consciousness  and  no  snob- 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


bishness  at  all.  It  merely  gave  the  charm  of  worldly 
experience  and  expertness  to  a  beauty  which,  without 
it,  might  have  been  too  melancholy. 

Susan,  become  by  sheer  compulsion  philosopher  about 
the  vagaries  of  fate,  did  not  fret  over  possible  future 
dangers.  She  dismissed  them  and  put  all  her  intelli 
gence  and  energy  to  the  business  in  hand — to  learning 
and  to  helping  Palmer  learn  the  ways  of  that  world 
which  includes  all  worlds. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  voyage  she  said  to  him : 

"About  my  salary — or  allowance — or  whatever  it  is 

I've  been  thinking  things  over.  I've  made  up  my 

mind  to  save  some  money.  My  only  chance  is  that 
salary.  Have  you  any  objection  to  my  saving  it — as 
much  of  it  as  I  can?" 

He  laughed.  "Tuck  away  anything  and  everything 
you  can  lay  your  hands  on,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  one  of 
those  fools  who  try  to  hold  women  by  being  close  and 
small  with  them.  I'd  not  want  you  about  if  you  were 
of  the  sort  that  could  be  held  that  way." 

"No — I'll  put  by  only  from  my  salary,"  said  she.  "I 
admit  I've  no  right  to  do  that.  But  I've  become  sen 
sible  enough  to  realize  that  I  mustn't  ever  risk  being 
out  again  with  no  money.  It  has  got  on  my  mind  so 
that  I'd  not  be  able  to  think  of  much  else  for  worrying 
— unless  I  had  at  least  a  little." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  make  you  independent?" 

"No,"  replied  she.  "Whatever  you  gave  me  I'd  have 
to  give  back  if  we  separated." 

"That  isn't  the  way  to  get  on,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

"It's  the  best  I  can  do — as  yet,"  replied  she.  "And 
it's  quite  an  advance  on  what  I  was.  Yes,  I  am  learn 
ing — slowly." 

"Save  all  your  salary,  then,"  said  Freddie.  "When 
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SUSAN  LENOX 


you  buy  anything  charge  it,  and  I'll  attend  to  the  bill." 
Her  expression  told  him  that  he  had  never  made  ;, 
shrewder  move  in  his  life.  He  knew  he  had  made  himselr 
secure  against  losing  her;  for  he  knew  what  a  force 
gratitude  was  in  her  character. 

Her  mind  was  now  free — free  for  the  educational 
business  in  hand.  She  appreciated  that  he  had  less 
to  learn  than  she.  Civilization,  the  science  and  art  of 
living,  of  extracting  all  possible  good  from  the  few  swift 
years  of  life,  has  been — since  the  downfall  of  woman 
from  hardship,  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  years  ago — the 
creation  of  the  man  almost  entirely.  Until  recently 
among  the  higher  races  such  small  development  of  the 
intelligence  of  woman  as  her  seclusion  and  servitude 
permitted  was  sporadic  and  exotic.  Nothing  intelli 
gent  was  expected  of  her — and  it  is  only  under  the  com 
pulsion  of  peremptory  demand  that  any  human  being 
ever  is  roused  from  the  natural  sluggishness.  But 
civilization,  created  by  man,  was  created  for  woman. 
Woman  has  to  learn  how  to  be  the  civilized  being  which 
man  has  ordained  that  she  shall  be — how  to  use  for 
man's  comfort  and  pleasure  the  ingenuities  and  the 
graces  he  has  invented. 

It  is  easy  for  a  man  to  pick  up  the  habits,  tastes, 
manners  and  dress  of  male  citizens  of  the  world,  if  he 
has  as  keen  eyes  and  as  discriminating  taste  as  had 
Palmer,  clever  descendant  of  the  supple  Italian.  But 
to  become  a  female  citizen  of  the  world  is  not  so  easy. 
For  Susan  to  learn  to  be  an  example  of  the  highest 
civilization,  from  her  inmost  thoughts  to  the  outer 
most  penumbra  of  her  surroundings — that  would  be 
for  her  a  labor  of  love,  but  still  a  labor.  As  her  vanity 
was  of  the  kind  that  centers  on  the  advantages  she 
actually  had,  instead  of  being  the  more  familiar  kind 

374 


SUSAN  LENOX 


that  centers  upon  non-existent  charms  of  mind  and 
person,  her  task  was  possible  of  accomplishment — for 
those  who  are  sincerely  willing  to  learn,  who  sincerely 
know  wherein  they  lack,  can  learn,  can  be  taught.  As 
she  had  given  these  matters  of  civilization  intelligent 
thought  she  knew  where  to  begin — at  the  humble,  ma 
terial  foundation,  despised  and  neglected  by  those  who 
talk  most  loudly  about  civilization,  art,  culture,  and  so 
on.  They  aspire  to  the  clouds  and  the  stars  at  once — 
and  arrive  nowhere  except  in  talk  and  pretense  and 
flaunting  of  ill-fitting  borrowed  plumage.  They  flap 
their  gaudy  artificial  wings ;  there  is  motion,  but  no 
ascent.  Susan  wished  to  build — and  build  solidly.  She 
began  with  the  so-called  trifles. 

When  they  had  been  at  Naples  a  week  Palmer  said: 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  push  on  to  Paris?" 

"I  can't  go  before  Saturday,"  replied  she.  "I've  got 
several  fittings  yet." 

"It's  pretty  dull  here  for  me — with  you  spending  So 
much  time  in  the  shops.  I  suppose  the  women's  shops 
are  good" — hesitatingly — "but  I've  heard  those  in 
Paris  are  better." 

"The  shops  here  are  rotten.  Italian  women  have  no 
taste  in  dress.  And  the  Paris  shops  are  the  best  in 
the  world." 

"Then  let's  clear  out,"  cried  he.  "I'm  bored  to 
death.  But  I  didn't  like  to  say  anything,  you  seemed 
so  busy." 

"I  am  busy.  And — can  you  stand  it  three  days 
more  ?" 

"But  you'll  only  have  to  throw  away  the  stuff  you 
buy  here.  Why  buy  so  much?" 

"I'm  not  buying  much.  Two  ready-to-wear  Paris 
dresses — models  they  call  them — and  two  hats." 

375 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Palmer  looked  alarmed.  "Why,  at  that  rate,"  pro 
tested  he,  "it'll  take  you  all  winter  to  get  together 
your  winter  clothes,  and  no  time  left  to  wear  'em." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  she.  "If  you  want 
to  be  treated  right  in  a  shop — be  shown  the  best  things 
— have  your  orders  attended  to,  you've  got  to  come 
looking  as  if  you  knew  what  the  best  is.  I'm  getting 
ready  to  make  a  good  first  impression  on  the  dress 
makers  and  milliners  in  Paris." 

"Oh,  you'll  have  the  money,  and  that'll  make  'em  step 
round." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  replied  she.  "All  the  money 
in  the  world  won't  get  you  fashionable  clothes  at  the 
most  fashionable  place.  It'll  only  get  you  costly 
clothes." 

"Maybe  that's  so  for  women's  things.  It  isn't  for 
men's." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that.  When  we  get  to  Paris,  we'll 
see.  But  certainly  it's  true  for  women.  If  I  went  to 
the  places  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix  dressed  as  I  am  now, 
it'd  take  several  years  to  convince  them  that  I  knew 
what  I  wanted  and  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  anything 
but  the  latest  and  best.  So  I'm  having  these  miserable 
dressmakers  fit  those  dresses  on  me  until  they're  abso 
lutely  perfect.  It's  wearing  me  out,  but  I'll  be  glad 
I  did  it." 

Palmer  had  profound  respect  for  her  as  a  woman 
who  knew  what  she  was  about.  So  he  settled  himself 
patiently  and  passed  the  time  investigating  the  famous 
Neapolitan  political  machine  with  the  aid  of  an  inter 
preter  guide  whom  he  hired  by  the  day.  He  was 
enthusiastic  over  the  dresses  and  the  hats  when  Susan 
at  last  had  them  at  the  hotel  and  showed  herself  to 
him  in  them.  They  certainly  did  work  an  amazing 

376 


SUSAN  LENOX 


change  in  her.     They  were  the  first  real  Paris  models 
she  had  ever  worn. 

"Maybe  it's  because  I  never  thought  much  about 
women's  clothes  before,"  said  Freddie,  "but  those 
things  seem  to  be  the  best  ever.  How  they  do  show 
up  your  complexion  and  your  figure !  And  I  hadn't 
any  idea  your  hair  was  as  grand  as  all  that.  I'm  a 
little  afraid  of  you.  We've  got  to  get  acquainted  all 
over  again.  These  clothes  of  mine  look  pretty  poor, 
don't  they?  Yet  I  paid  all  kinds  of  money  for  'em  at 
the  best  place  in  Fifth  Avenue." 

He  examined  her  from  all  points  of  view,  going  round 
and  round  her,  getting  her  to  walk  up  and  down  to  give 
him  the  full  effect  of  her  slender  yet  voluptuous  figure 
in  that  beautifully  fitted  coat  and  skirt.  He  felt  that 
his  dreams  were  beginning  to  come  true. 

"We'll  do  the  trick!"  cried  he.  "Don't  you  think 
about  money  when  you're  buying  clothes.  It's  a  joy 
to  give  up  for  clothes  for  you.  You  make  'em  look 
like  something." 

"Wait  till  I've  shopped  a  few  weeks  in  Paris,"  said 
Susan. 

"Let's  start  tonight,"  cried  he.  "I'll  telegraph  to 
the  Ritz  for  rooms." 

When  she  began  to  dress  in  her  old  clothes  for  the 
journey,  he  protested.  "Throw  all  these  things  away," 
he  urged.  "Wear  one  of  the  new  dresses  and  hats." 

"But  they're  not  exactly  suitable  for  traveling." 

"People'll  think  you  lost  your  baggage.  I  don't 
want  ever  to  see  you  again  looking  any  way  except 
as  you  ought  to  look." 

"No,  I  must  take  care  of  those  clothes,"  said  she 
firmly.     "It'll  be  weeks  before  I  can  get  anything  in 
Paris,  and  I  must  keep  up  a  good  front." 
-  377 


SUSAN  LENOX 


He  continued  to  argue  with  her  until  it  occurred  to 
him  that  as  his  own  clothes  were  not  what  they  should 
be,  he  and  she  would  look  much  better  matched  if  she 
dressed  as  she  wished.  He  had  not  been  so  much  in 
jest  as  he  thought  when  he  said  to  her  that  they  would 
have  to  get  acquainted  all  over  again.  Those  new 
clothes  of  hers  brought  out  startlingly — so  clearly 
that  even  his  vanity  was  made  uneasy — the  subtle  yet 
profound  difference  of  class  between  them.  He  had 
always  felt  this  difference,  and  in  the  old  days  it  had 
given  him  many  a  savage  impulse  to  degrade  her,  to 
put  her  beneath  him  as  a  punishment  for  his  feeling 
that  she  was  above  him.  Now  he  had  his  ambition  too 
close  at  heart  to  wish  to  rob  her  of  her  chief  distinc 
tion;  he  was  disturbed  about  it,  though,  and  looked 
forward  to  Paris  with  uneasiness. 

"You  must  help  me  get  my  things,"  said  he. 

"I'd  be  glad  to,"  said  she.  "And  you  must  be  frank 
with  me,  and  tell  me  where  I  fall  short  of  the  best  of 
the  women  we  see." 

He  laughed.  The  idea  that  he  could  help  her  seemed 
fantastic.  He  could  not  understand  it — how  this  girl 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  a  jay  town  away  out  West, 
who  had  never  had  what  might  be  called  a  real  chance 
to  get  in  the  know  in  New  York,  could  so  quickly  pass 
him  who  had  been  born  and  bred  in  New  York,  had 
spent  the  last  ten  years  in  cultivating  style  and  all  the 
other  luxurious  tastes.  He  did  not  like  to  linger  on 
this  puzzle ;  the  more  he  worked  at  it,  the  farther  away 
from  him  Susan  seemed  to  get.  Vet  the  puzzle  would 
not  let  him  drop  it. 

They  came  in  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon  in  the  middle  of 
a  beautiful  October  afternoon.  Usually,  from  late 
September  or  earlier  until  May  or  later,  Paris  has 

378 


SUSAN  LENOX 


about  the  vilest  climate  that  curses  a  civilized  city. 
It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  ironies  of  fate  that  a  people 
so  passionately  fond  of  the  sun,  of  the  outdoors,  should 
be  doomed  for  two-thirds  of  the  year  to  live  under 
leaden,  icily  leaking  skies  with  rarely  a  ray  of  real 
sunshine.  And  nothing  so  well  illustrates  the  exuberant 
vitality,  the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  French  people,  as 
the  way  they  have  built  in  preparation  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  every  bit  of  the  light  and  warmth  of  any 
chance  ray  of  sunshine.  That  year  it  so  fell  that  the 
winter  rains  did  not  close  in  until  late,  and  Paris  rev 
eled  in  a  long  autumn  of  almost  New  York  perfection. 
Susan  and  Palmer  drove  to  the  Ritz  through  Paris, 
the  lovely,  the  gay. 

"This  is  the  real  thing— isn't  it?"  said  he,  thrilled 
into  speech  by  that  spectacle  so  inspiring  to  all  who 
have  the  joy  of  life  in  their  veins — the  Place  de  1'Opera 
late  on  a  bright  afternoon. 

"It's  the  first  thing  I've  ever  seen  that  was  equal 
to  what  I  had  dreamed  about  it,"  replied  she. 

They  had  chosen  the  Ritz  as  their  campaign  head 
quarters  because  they  had  learned  that  it  was  the 
most  fashionable  hotel  in  Paris — which  meant  in  the 
world.  There  were  hotels  more  grand,  the  interpreter- 
guide  at  Naples  had  said ;  there  were  hotels  more  ex 
clusive.  There  were  even  hotels  more  comfortable. 
"But  for  fashion,"  said  he,  "it  is  the  summit.  There 
you  see  the  most  beautiful  ladies,  most  beautifully 
dressed.  There  you  see  the  elegant  world  at  tea  and 
at  dinner." 

At  first  glance  they  were  somewhat  disappointed 
in  the  quiet,  unostentatious  general  rooms.  The  suite 
assigned  them — at  a  hundred  and  twenty  francs  a  day 
— was  comfortable,  was  the  most  comfortable  assem- 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


blage  of  rooms  either  had  ever  seen.  But  there  was 
nothing  imposing.  This  impression  did  not  last  long, 
however.  They  had  been  misled  by  their  American 
passion  for  looks.  They  soon  discovered  that  the  guide 
at  Naples  had  told  the  literal  truth.  They  went  down 
for  tea  in  the  garden,  which  was  filled  as  the  day  was 
summer  warm.  Neither  spoke  as  they  sat  under  a 
striped  awning  umbrella,  she  with  tea  untasted  before 
her,  he  with  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  soda  he  did  not  lift 
from  the  little  table.  Their  eyes  and  their  thoughts 
were  too  busy  for  speech;  one  cannot  talk  when  one 
is  thinking.  About  them  were  people  of  the  world  of 
which  neither  had  before  had  any  but  a  distant  glimpse. 
They  heard  English,  American,  French,  Italian.  They 
saw  men  and  women  with  that  air  which  no  one  can 
define  yet  everyone  knows  on  sight — the  assurance  with 
out  impertinence,  the  politeness  without  formality,  the 
simplicity  that  is  more  complex  than  the  most  elaborate 
ornamentation  of  dress  or  speech  or  manner.  Susan 
and  Freddie  lingered  until  the  departure  of  the  last 
couple — a  plainly  dressed  man  whose  clothes  on  in 
spection  revealed  marvels  of  fineness  and  harmonious 
color;  a  quietly  dressed  woman  whose  costume  from 
tip  of  plume  to  tip  of  suede  slipper  was  a  revelation  of 
how  fine  a  fine  art  the  toilet  can  be  made. 

"Well — we're  right  in  it,  for  sure,"  said  Freddie, 
dropping  to  a  sofa  in  their  suite  and  lighting  a  cig 
arette. 

"Yes,"  said  Susan,  with  a  sigh.  "In  it — but  not 
of  it." 

"I  almost  lost  my  nerve  as  I  sat  there.  And  for 
the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell  why." 

"Those  people  know  how,"  replied  Susatu  "Well — 
what  they've  learned  we  can  learn." 

380 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Sure,"  said  he  energetically.  "It's  going  to  take 
a  lot  of  practice — a  lot  of  time.  But  I'm  game."  His 
expression,  its  suggestion  of  helplessness  and  appeal, 
was  a  clear  confession  of  a  feeling  that  she  was  his 
superior. 

"We're  both  of  us  ignorant,"  she  hastened  to  say. 
"But  when  we  get  our  bearings — in  a  day  or  two — 
we'll  be  all  right." 

"Let's  have  dinner  up  here  in  the  sitting-room.  I 
haven't  got  the  nerve  to  face  that  gang  again  to 
day." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  she.  "We  mustn't  give  way 
to  our  feelings — not  for  a  minute.  There'll  be  a  lot 
of  people  as  badly  off  as  we  are.  I  saw  some  this 
afternoon — and  from  the  way  the  waiters  treated  them, 
I  know  they  had  money  or  something.  Put  on  your 
evening  suit,  and  you'll  be  all  right.  I'm  the  one  that 
hasn't  anything  to  wear.  But  I've  got  to  go  and  study 
the  styles.  I  must  begin  to  learn  what  to  wear  and 
now  to  wear  it.  We've  come  to  the  right  place,  Freddie. 
Cheer  up!" 

He  felt  better  when  he  was  in  evening  clothes  which 
made  him  handsome  indeed,  bringing  out  all  his  refine 
ment  of  feature  and  coloring.  He  was  almost  cheerful 
when  Susan  came  into  the  sitting-room  in  the  pale  gray 
of  her  two  new  toilettes.  It  might  be,  as  she  insisted, 
that  she  was  not  dressed  properly  for  fashionable  din 
ing  ;  but  there  would  be  no  more  delicate,  no  more  lady 
like  loveliness.  He  quite  recovered  his  nerve  when  they 
faced  the  company  that  had  terrified  him  in  prospect. 
He  saw  many  commonplace  looking  people,  not  a  few 
who  were  downright  dowdy.  And  presently  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  realizing  that  not  only  Susan  but  he 
also  was  getting  admiring  attention.  He  no  longer 
29  381 


SUSAN  LENOX 


floundered  panicstricken ;  his  feet  touched  bottom  and 
he  felt  foolish  about  his  sensations  of  a  few  minutes 
before. 

After  all,  the  world  over,  dining  in  a  restaurant  is 
nothing  but  dining  in  a  restaurant.  The  waiter  and 
the  head  waiter  spoke  English,  were  gracefully,  tact 
fully,  polite ;  and  as  he  ordered  he  found  his  self-confi 
dence  returning  with  the  surging  rush  of  a  turned  tide 
on  a  low  shore.  The  food  was  wonderful,  and  the  cham 
pagne,  "English  taste,"  was  the  best  he  had  ever  drunk. 
Halfway  through  dinner  both  he  and  Susan  were  in  the 
happiest  frame  of  mind.  The  other  people  were  drink 
ing  too,  were  emerging  from  caste  into  humanness. 
Women  gazed  languorously  and  longingly  at  the  hand 
some  young  American ;  men  sent  stealthy  or  open  smiles 
of  adoration  at  Susan  whenever  Freddie's  eyes  were 
safely  averted.  But  Susan  was  more  careful  than  a 
woman  of  the  world  to  which  she  aspired  would  have 
been;  she  ignored  the  glances  and  without  difficulty 
assumed  the  air  of  wife. 

"I  don't  believe  we'll  have  any  trouble  getting  ac 
quainted  with  these  people,"  said  Freddie. 

"We  don't  want  to,  yet,"  replied  she. 

"Oh,  I  feel  we'll  soon  be  ready  for  them,"  said  he. 

"Yes — that,"  said  she.  "But  that  amounts  to  noth 
ing.  This  isn't  to  be  merely  a  matter  of  clothes  and 
acquaintances — at  least,  not  with  me." 

"What  then?"  inquired  he. 

"Oh — we'll  see  as  we  get  our  bearings."  She  could 
not  have  put  into  words  the  plans  she  was  forming — • 
plans  for  educating  and  in  every  way  developing  him 
and  herself.  She  was  not  sure  at  what  she  was  aim 
ing,  but  only  of  the  direction.  She  had  no  idea  how 
far  she  could  go  herself — or  how  far  he  would  consent 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  go.  The  wise  course  was  just  to  work  along  from 
day  to  day — keeping  the  direction. 

"All  right.  I'll  do  as  you  say.  You've  got  this 
game  sized  up  better  than  I." 

Is  there  any  other  people  that  works  as  hard  as  do 
the  Parisians?  Other  peoples  work  with  their  bodies; 
but  the  Parisians,  all  classes  and  masses  too,  press  both 
mind  and  body  into  service.  Other  peoples,  if  they 
think  at  all,  think  how  to  avoid  work;  the  Parisians 
think  incessantly,  always,  how  to  provide  themselves 
with  more  to  do.  Other  peoples  drink  to  stupefy  them 
selves  lest  peradventure  in  a  leisure  moment  they  might 
be  seized  of  a  thought;  Parisians  drink  to  stimulate 
themselves,  to  try  to  think  more  rapidly,  to  attract 
ideas  that  might  not  enter  and  engage  a  sober  and 
therefore  somewhat  sluggish  brain.  Other  peoples  meet 
a  new  idea  as  if  it  were  a  mortal  foe;  the  Parisians 
as  if  it  were  a  longlost  friend.  Other  peoples  are 
agitated  chiefly,  each  man  or  woman,  about  themselves ; 
the  Parisians  are  full  of  their  work,  their  surroundings, 
bother  little  about  themselves  except  as  means  to 
what  they  regard  as  the  end  and  aim  of  life — to  make 
the  world  each  moment  as  different  as  possible  from 
what  it  was  the  moment  before,  to  transform  the  crass 
and  sordid  universe  of  things  with  the  magic  of  ideas. 
Being  intelligent,  they  prefer  good  to  evil;  but  they 
have  God's  own  horror  of  that  which  is  neither  good 
nor  evil,  and  spew  it  out  of  their  mouths. 

At  the  moment  of  the  arrival  of  Susan  and  Palmer 
the  world  that  labors  at  amusing  itself  was  pausing  in 
Paris  on  its  way  from  the  pleasures  of  sea  and  moun 
tains  to  the  pleasures  of  the  Riviera  and  Egypt.  And 
as  the  weather  held  fine,  day  after  day  the  streets, 
the  cafes,  the  restaurants,  offered  the  young  adven- 

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SUSAN  LENOX 


turers  an  incessant  dazzling  panorama  of  all  they  had 
come  abroad  to  seek.  A  week  passed  before  Susan  per 
mitted  herself  to  enter  any  of  the  shops  where  she 
intended  to  buy  dresses,  hats  and  the  other  and  lesser 
paraphernalia  of  the  woman  of  fashion. 

"I  mustn't  go  until  I've  seen,"  said  she.  "I'd  yield 
to  the  temptation  to  buy  and  would  regret  it." 

And  Freddie,  seeing  her  point,  restrained  his  impa 
tience  for  making  radical  changes  in  himself  and  in 
her.  The  fourth  day  of  their  stay  at  Paris  he  realized 
that  he  would  buy,  and  would  wish  to  buy,  none  of  the 
things  that  had  tempted  him  the  first  and  second  days. 
Secure  in  the  obscurity  of  the  crowd  of  strangers,  he 
was  losing  his  extreme  nervousness  about  himself.  That 
sort  of  emotion  is  most  characteristic  of  Americans  and 
gets  them  the  reputation  for  profound  snobbishness. 
In  fact,  it  is  not  snobbishness  at  all.  In  no  country 
on  earth  is  ignorance  in  such  universal  disrepute  as 
in  America.  The  American,  eager  to  learn,  eager  to 
be  abreast  of  the  foremost,  is  terrified  into  embarrass 
ment  and  awe  when  he  finds  himself  in  surroundings 
where  are  things  that  he  feels  he  ought  to  know  about 
— while  a  stupid  fellow,  in  such  circumstances,  is  calmly 
content  with  himself,  wholly  unaware  of  his  own  defi 
ciencies. 

Susan  let  full  two  weeks  pass  before  she,  with  much 
hesitation,  gave  her  first  order  toward  the  outfit  on 
which  Palmer  insisted  upon  her  spending  not  less  than 
five  thousand  dollars.  Palmer  had  been  going  to  the 
shops  with  her.  She  warned  him  it  would  make  prices 
higher  if  she  appeared  with  a  prosperous  looking  man; 
but  he  wanted  occupation  and  everything  concerning 
her  fascinated  him  now.  His  ignorance  of  the  details 
of  feminine  dress  was  giving  place  rapidly  to  a  knowl- 

384 


SUSAN  LENOX 


edge  which  he  thought  profound — and  it  was  profound, 
for  a  man.  She  would  not  permit  him  to  go  with 
her  to  order,  however,  or  to  fittings.  All  she  would 
tell  him  in  advance  about  this  first  dress  was  that  it 
was  for  evening  wear  and  that  its  color  was  green. 
"But  not  a  greeny  green,"  said  she. 

"I  understand.  A  green  something  like  the  tint  in 
your  skin  at  the  nape  of  your  neck." 

"Perhaps,"  admitted  she.     "Yes." 

"We'll  go  to  the  opera  the  evening  it  comes  home. 
I'll  have  my  new  evening  outfit  from  Charvet's  by  that 
time." 

It  was  about  ten  days  after  this  conversation  that 
she  told  him  she  had  had  a  final  fitting,  had  ordered 
the  dress  sent  home.  He  was  instantly  all  excitement 
and  rushed  away  to  engage  a  good  box  for  the  opera. 
With  her  assistance  he  had  got  evening  clothes  that 
sent  through  his  whole  being  a  glow  of  self-confidence 
— for  he  knew  that  in  those  clothes,  he  looked  what  he 
was  striving  to  be.  They  were  to  dine  at  seven.  He 
dressed  early  and  went  into  their  sitting-room.  He  was 
afraid  he  would  spoil  his  pleasure  of  complete  surprise 
by  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  grande  toilette  before  it 
was  finished.  At  a  quarter  past  seven  Susan  put  her 
head  into  the  sitting-room — only  her  head.  At  sight 
of  his  anxious  face,  his  tense  manner,  she  burst  out 
laughing.  It  seemed,  and  was,  grotesque  that  one  so 
imperturbable  of  surface  should  be  so  upset. 

"Can  you  stand  the  strain  another  quarter  of  an 
hour?"  said  she. 

"Don't  hurry,"  he  urged.  "Take  all  the  time  you 
want.  Do  the  thing  up  right."  He  rose  and  came  to 
ward  her  with  one  hand  behind  him.  "You  said  the 
dress  was  green,  didn't  you?" 

385 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Yes." 

"Well — here's  something  you  may  be  able  to  fit  in 
somewhere."  And  he  brought  the  concealed  hand  into 
view  and  held  a  jewel  box  toward  her. 

She  reached  a  bare  arm  through  the  crack  in  the 
door  and  took  it.  The  box,  the  arm,  the  head  dis 
appeared.  Presently  there  was  a  low  cry  of  delight 
that  thrilled  him.  The  face  reappeared.  "Oh — 
Freddie!"  she  exclaimed,  radiant.  "You  must  have 
spent  a  fortune  on  them." 

"No.  Twelve  thousand — that's  all.  It  was  a  bar 
gain.  Go  on  dressing.  We'll  talk  about  it  afterward." 
And  he  gently  pushed  her  head  back — getting  a  kiss 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand — and  drew  the  door  to. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  door  opened  part  way  again. 
"Brace  yourself,"  she  called  laughingly.  "I'm  com- 
ing." 

A  breathless  pause  and  the  door  swung  wide.  He 
stared  with  eyes  amazed  and  bewitched.  There  is  no 
more  describing  the  effects  of  a  harmonious  combina 
tion  of  exquisite  dress  and  exquisite  woman  than  there 
is  reproducing  in  words  the  magic  and  the  thrill  of 
sunrise  or  sunset,  of  moonlight's  fanciful  amorous  play, 
or  of  starry  sky.  As  the  girl  stood  there,  her  eyes 
starlike  with  excitement,  her  lips  crimson  and  sensuous 
against  the  clear  old-ivory  pallor  of  her  small  face  in 
its  frame  of  glorious  dark  hair,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
her  soul,  more  beautiful  counterpart  of  herself,  had 
come  from  its  dwelling  place  within  and  was  hovering 
about  her  body  like  an  aureole.  Round  her  lovely 
throat  was  the  string  of  emeralds.  Her  shoulders  were 
bare  and  also  her  bosom,  over  nearly  half  its  soft, 
girlish  swell.  And  draped  in  light  and  clinging  grace 
about  her  slender,  sensuous  form  was  the  most  wonder- 

386 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ful  garment  he  had  ever  seen.  The  great  French  de 
signers  of  dresses  and  hats  and  materials  have  a  genius 
for  taking  an  idea — a  pure  poetical  abstraction — and 
materializing  it,  making  it  visible  and  tangible  with 
out  destroying  its  spirituality.  This  dress  of  Susan's 
did  not  suggest  matter  any  more  than  the  bar  of  music 
suggests  the  rosined  string  that  has  given  birth  to  it. 
She  was  carrying  the  train  and  a  pair  of  long  gloves 
in  one  hand.  The  skirt,  thus  drawn  back,  revealed  her 
slim,  narrow  foot,  a  slender  slipper  of  pale  green  satin, 
a  charming  instep  with  a  rosiness  shimmering  through 
the  gossamer  web  of  pale  green  silk,  the  outline  of  a 
long,  slender  leg  whose  perfection  was  guaranteed  by 
the  beauty  of  her  bare  arm. 

His  expression  changed  slowly  from  bedazzlement  to 
the  nearest  approach  to  the  old  slumbrous,  smiling 
wickedness  she  had  seen  since  they  started.  And  her 
sensitive  instinct  understood;  it  was  the  menace  of  an 
insane  jealousy,  sprung  from  fear — fear  of  losing  her. 
The  look  vanished,  and  once  again  he  was  Freddie 
Palmer  the  delighted,  the  generous  and  almost  ro 
mantically  considerate,  because  everything  was  going 
as  he  wished. 

"No  wonder  I  went  crazy  about  you,"  he  said. 

"Then  you're  not  disappointed?" 

He  came  to  her,  unclasped  the  emeralds,  stood  off 
and  viewed  her  again.  "No — you  mustn't  wear  them," 
said  he. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  protesting.  "They're  the  best  of 
all." 

"Not  tonight,"  said  he.  "They  look  cheap.  They 
spoil  the  effect  of  your  neck  and  shoulders.  Another 
time,  when  you're  not  quite  so  wonderful,  but  not  to 
night." 

387 


SUSAN   LENOX 


As  she  could  not  see  herself  as  he  saw  her,  she  pleaded 
for  the  jewels.  She  loved  jewels  and  these  were  the 
first  she  had  ever  had,  except  two  modest  little 
birthday  rings  she  had  left  in  Sutherland.  But  he  led 
her  to  the  long  mirror  and  convinced  her  that  he  was 
right.  When  they  descended  to  the  dining-room,  they 
caused  a  stir.  It  does  not  take  much  to  make  fash 
ionable  people  stare;  but  it  does  take  something  to 
make  a  whole  room  full  of  them  quiet  so  far  toward 
silence  that  the  discreet  and  refined  handling  of  dishes 
in  a  restaurant  like  the  Ritz  sounds  like  a  vulgar  clat 
ter.  Susan  and  Palmer  congratulated  themselves  that 
they  had  been  at  the  hotel  long  enough  to  become  ac 
climated  and  so  could  act  as  if  they  were  unconscious 
of  the  sensation  they  were  creating.  When  they  finished 
dinner,  they  found  all  the  little  tables  in  the  long 
corridor  between  the  restaurant  and  the  entrance  taken 
by  people  lingering  over  coffee  to  get  another  and  closer 
view.  And  the  men  who  looked  at  her  sweet  dreaming 
violet-gray  eyes  said  she  was  innocent ;  those  who  looked 
at  her  crimson  lips  said  she  was  gay;  those  who  saw 
both  eyes  and  lips  said  she  was  innocent — as  yet.  A 
few  very  dim-sighted,  and  very  wise,  retained  their 
reason  sufficiently  to  say  that  nothing  could  be  told 
about  a  woman  from  her  looks — especially  an  Ameri 
can  woman.  She  put  on  the  magnificent  cloak,  white 
silk,  ermine  lined,  which  he  had  seen  at  Paquin's  and 
had  insisted  on  buying.  And  they  were  off  for  the 
opera  in  the  aristocratic  looking  auto  he  was  taking 
by  the  week. 

She  had  a  second  triumph  at  the  opera — was  the 
center  that  drew  all  glasses  the  instant  the  lights  went 
up  for  the  intermission.  There  were  a  few  minutes 
when  her  head  was  quite  turned,  when  it  seemed  to  her 


SUSAN  LENOX 


that  she  had  arrived  very  near  to  the  highest  goal  of 
human  ambition — said  goal  being  the  one  achieved  and 
so  self-complacently  occupied  by  these  luxurious, 
fashionable  people  who  were  paying  her  the  tribute  of 
interest  and  admiration.  Were  not  these  people  at  the 
top  of  the  heap?  Was  she  not  among  them,  of  them, 
by  right  of  excellence  in  the  things  that  made  them, 
distinguished  them? 

Ambition,  drunk  and  heavy  with  luxury,  flies  slug 
gishly  and  low.  And  her  ambition  was — for  the  mo 
ment — in  danger  of  that  fate. 

During  the  last  intermission  the  door  of  their  box 
opened.  At  once  Palmer  sprang  up  and  advanced 
with  beaming  face  and  extended  hand  to  welcome  the 
caller. 

"Hello,  Brent,  I  am  glad  to  see  you !  I  want  to  intro 
duce  you  to  Mrs.  Palmer" — that  name  pronounced  with 
the  unconscious  pride  of  the  possessor  of  the  jewel. 

Brent  bowed.     Susan  forced  a  smile. 

"We,"  Palmer  hastened  on,  "are  on  a  sort  of  post 
poned  honeymoon.  I  didn't  announce  the  marriage — 
didn't  want  to  have  my  friends  out  of  pocket  for  pres 
ents.  Besides,  they'd  have  sent  us  stuff  fit  only  to 
furnish  out  a  saloon  or  a  hotel — and  we'd  have  had 
to  use  it  or  hurt  their  feelings.  My  wife's  a  Western 
girl — from  Indiana.  She  came  on  to  study  for  the 
stage.  But" — he  laughed  delightedly — "I  persuaded 
her  to  change  her  mind." 

"You  are  from  the  West?"  said  Brent  in  the  formal 
tone  one  uses  in  addressing  a  new  acquaintance.  "So 
am  I.  But  that's  more  years  ago  than  you  could  count. 
I  live  in  New  York — when  I  don't  live  here — or  in  the 
Riviera." 

The  moment  had  passed  when  Susan  could,  without 
389 


SUSAN  LENOX 


creating  an  impossible  scene,  admit  and  compel  Brent 
to  admit  that  they  knew  each  other.  What  did  it  mat 
ter?  Was  it  not  best  to  ignore  the  past?  Probably 
Brent  had  done  this  deliberately,  assuming  that  she 
was  beginning  a  new  life  with  a  clean  slate. 

"Been  here  long?"  said  Brent  to  Palmer. 

As  he  and  Palmer  talked,  she  contrasted  the  two 
men.  Palmer  was  much  the  younger,  much  the  hand 
somer.  Yet  in  the  comparison  Brent  had  the  advan 
tage.  He  looked  as  if  he  amounted  to  a  great  deal, 
as  if  he  had  lived  and  had  understood  life  as  the  other 
man  could  not.  The  physical  difference  between  them 
was  somewhat  the  difference  between  look  of  lion  and 
look  of  tiger.  Brent  looked  strong;  Palmer,  danger 
ous.  She  could  not  imagine  either  man  failing  of  a 
purpose  he  had  set  his  heart  upon.  She  could  not 
imagine  Brent  reaching  for  it  in  any  but  an  open, 
direct,  daring  way.  She  knew  that  the  descendant  of 
the  supple  Italians,  the  graduate  of  the  street  schools 
of  stealth  and  fraud,  would  not  care  to  have  anything 
unless  he  got  it  by  skill  at  subtlety.  She  noted  their 
dress.  Brent  was  wearing  his  clothes  in  that  elegantly 
careless  way  which  it  was  one  of  Freddie's  dreams — 
one  of  the  vain  ones — to  attain.  Brent's  voice  was 
much  more  virile,  was  almost  harsh,  and  in  pronouncing 
some  words  made  the  nerves  tingle  with  a  sensation  of 
mingled  irritation  and  pleasure.  Freddie's  voice  was 
manly  enough,  but  soft  and  dangerous,  suggestive  of 
hidden  danger.  She  compared  the  two  men,  as  she 
knew  them.  She  wondered  how  they  would  seem  to  a 
complete  stranger.  Palmer,  she  thought,  would  be  able 
to  attract  almost  any  woman  he  might  want ;  it  seemed 
to  her  that  a  woman  Brent  wanted  would  feel  rather 
helpless  before  the  onset  he  would  make. 

390 


SUSAN  LENOX 


It  irritated  her,  this  untimely  intrusion  of  Brent 
who  had  the  curious  quality  of  making  all  other  men 
seem  less  in  the  comparison.  Not  that  he  assumed 
anything,  or  forced  comparisons;  on  the  contrary,  no 
man  could  have  insisted  less  upon  himself.  Not  that 
he  compelled  or  caused  the  transfer  of  all  interest  to 
himself.  Simply  that,  with  him  there,  she  felt  less  hope 
ful  of  Palmer,  less  confident  of  his  ability  to  become 
what  he  seemed — and  go  beyond  it.  There  are  occa 
sional  men  who  have  this  same  quality  that  Susan  was 
just  then  feeling  in  Brent — men  whom  women  never 
love  yet  who  make  it  impossible  for  them  to  begin  to 
love  or  to  continue  to  love  the  other  men  within  their 
range. 

She  was  not  glad  to  see  him.  She  did  not  conceal  it. 
Yet  she  knew  that  he  would  linger — and  that  she  would 
not  oppose.  She  would  have  liked  to  say  to  him :  "You 
lost  belief  in  me  and  dropped  me.  I  have  begun  to 
make  a  life  for  myself.  Let  me  alone.  Do  not  upset 
me — do  not  force  me  to  see  what  I  must  not  see  if  I 
am  to  be  happy.  Go  away,  and  give  me  a  chance." 
But  we  do  not  say  these  frank,  childlike  things  except 
in  moments  of  closest  intimacy — and  certainly  there 
was  no  suggestion  of  intimacy,  no  invitation  to  it,  but 
the  reverse,  in  the  man  facing  her  at  the  front  of  the 
box. 

"Then  you  are  to  be  in  Paris  some  time?"  said  Brent, 
addressing  her. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Susan. 

"Sure,"  cried  Palmer.  "This  is  the  town  the 
world  revolves  round.  I  felt  like  singing  'Home,  Sweet 
Home'  as  we  drove  from  the  station." 

"I  like  it  better  than  any  place  on  earth,"  said  Brent. 
"Better  even  than  New  York.  I've  never  been  quite 

391 


SUSAN   LENOX 


able  to  forgive  New  York  for  some  of  the  things  it 
made  me  suffer  before  it  gave  me  what  I  wanted." 

"I,  too,"  said  Freddie.  "My  wife  can't  understand 
that.  She  doesn't  know  the  side  of  life  we  know.  I'm 
going  to  smoke  a  cigarette.  I'll  leave  you  here,  old 
man,  to  entertain  her." 

When  he  disappeared,  Susan  looked  out  over  the 
house  with  an  expression  of  apparent  abstraction. 
Brent — she  was  conscious — studied  her  with  those  see 
ing  eyes — hazel  eyes  with  not  a  bit  of  the  sentimentality 
and  weakness  of  brown  in  them.  "You  and  Palmer 
know  no  one  here?" 

"Not  a  soul." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  introduce  some  of  my  acquaintances 
to  you — French  people  of  the  artistic  set.  They  speak 
English.  And  you'll  soon  be  learning  French." 

"I  intend  to  learn  as  soon  as  I've  finished  my  fall 
shopping." 

"You  are  not  coming  back  to  America?" 

"Not  for  a  long  time." 

"Then  you  will  find  my  friends  useful." 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  his.  "You  are  very  kind," 
said  she.  "But  I'd  rather — we'd  rather — not  meet  any 
one — just  yet." 

His  eyes  met  hers  calmly.  It  was  impossible  to  tell 
whether  he  understood  or  not.  After  a  few  seconds 
he  glanced  out  over  the  house.  "That  is  a  beautiful 
dress,"  said  he.  "You  have  real  taste,  if  you'll  permit 
me  to  say  so.  I  was  one  of  those  who  were  struck  dumb 
with  admiration  at  the  Ritz  tonight." 

"It's  the  first  grand  dress  I  ever  possessed,"  said  she. 

"You  love  dresses — and  jewels — and  luxury?" 

"As  a  starving  man  loves  food." 

"Then  you  are  happy?" 
392 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Perfectly  so — for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

"It  is  a  kind  of  ecstasy — isn't  it?  I  remember  how 
it  was  with  me.  I  had  always  been  poor — I  worked  my 
way  through  prep  school  and  college.  And  I  wanted  all 
the  luxuries.  The  more  I  had  to  endure — the  worse 
food  and  clothing  and  lodgings — the  madder  I  became 
about  them,  until  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but  get 
ting  the  money  to  buy  them.  When  I  got  it,  I  gorged 
myself.  .  .  .  It's  a  pity  the  starving  man  can't  keep 
on  loving  food — keep  on  being  always  starving  and  al 
ways  having  his  hunger  satisfied." 

"Ah,  but  he  can." 

He  smiled  mysteriously.  "You  think  so,  now.  Wait 
till  you  are  gorged." 

She  laughed.  "You  don't  know !  I  could  never  get 
enough — never !" 

His  smile  became  even  more  mysterious.  As  he 
looked  away,  his  profile  presented  itself  to  her  view — 
an  outline  of  sheer  strength,  of  tragic  sadness — the 
profile  of  those  who  have  dreamed  and  dared  and  suf 
fered.  But  the  smile,  saying  no  to  her  confident  asser 
tion,  still  lingered. 

"Never!"  she  repeated.  She  must  compel  that  smile 
to  take  away  its  disquieting  negation,  its  relentless 
prophecy  of  the  end  of  her  happiness.  She  must  con 
vince  him  that  he  had  come  back  in  vain,  that  he  could 
not  disturb  her. 

"You  don't  suggest  to  me  the  woman  who  can  be 
content  with  just  people  and  just  things.  You  will 
always  insist  on  luxury.  But  you  will  demand  more." 
He  looked  at  her  again.  "And  you  will  get  it,"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  that  sent  a  wave  through  her  nerves. 

Her  glance  fell.  Palmer  came  in,  bringing  an  odor 
of  cologne  and  of  fresh  cigarette  fumes.  Brent  rose. 

393 


SUSAN  LENOX 


Palmer  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Do 
stay  on,  Brent,  and  go  to  supper  with  us." 

"I  was  about  to  ask  you  to  supper  with  me.  Have 
you  been  to  the  Abbaye?" 

"No.  We  haven't  got  round  to  that  yet.  Is  it 
lively?" 

"And  the  food's  the  best  in  Paris.    You'll  come?" 

Brent  was  looking  at  Susan.  Palmer,  not  yet  edu 
cated  in  the  smaller — and  important — refinements  of 
politeness,  did  not  wait  for  her  reply  or  think  that  she 
should  be  consulted.  "Certainly,"  said  he.  "On  con 
dition  that  you  dine  with  us  tomorrow  night." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  Brent.  And  he  excused  himself 
to  take  leave  of  his  friends.  "Just  tell  your  chauffeur 
to  go  to  the  Abbaye — he'll  know,"  he  said  as  he  bowed 
over  Susan's  hand.  "I'll  be  waiting.  I  wish  to  be 
there  ahead  and  make  sure  of  a  table." 

As  the  door  of  the  box  closed  upon  him  Freddie  burst 
out  with  that  enthusiasm  we  feel  for  one  who  is  in  a 
position  to  render  us  good  service  and  is  showing  a 
disposition  to  do  so.  "I've  known  him  for  years,"  said 
he,  "and  he's  the  real  thing.  He  used  to  spend  a  lot 
of  time  in  a  saloon  I  used  to  keep  in  Allen  Street." 

"Allen  Street?"  ejaculated  Susan,  shivering. 

"I  was  twenty-two  then.  He  used  to  want  to  study 
types,  as  he  called  it.  And  I  gathered  in  types  for 
him — though  really  my  place  was  for  the  swell  crooks 
and  their  ladies.  How  long  ago  that  seems — and  how 
far  away!" 

" Another  life,"  said  Susan. 

"That's  a  fact.  This  is  my  second  time  on  earth. 
Our  second  time.  I  tell  you  it's  fighting  for  a  foothold 
that  makes  men  and  women  the  wretches  they  are. 
Nowadays,  I  couldn't  hurt  a  fly — could  you?  But  then 

394 


SUSAN   LENOX 


you  never  were  cruel.  That's  why  you  stayed  down 
so  long." 

Susan  smiled  into  the  darkness  of  the  auditorium — 
the  curtain  was  up,  and  they  were  talking  in  under 
tones.  She  said,  as  she  smiled: 

"I'll  never  go  down  and  stay  down  for  that  reason 
again." 

Her  tone  arrested  his  attention;  but  he  could  make 
nothing  of  it  or  of  her  expression,  though  her  face  was 
clear  enough  in  the  reflection  from  the  footlights. 

"Anyhow,  Brent  and  I  are  old  pals,"  continued  he, 
"though  we  haven't  seen  so  much  of  each  other  since 
he  made  a  hit  with  the  plays.  He  always  used  to  .pre 
dict  I'd  get  to  the  top  and  be  respectable.  Now  that 
it's  come  true,  he'll  help  me.  He'll  introduce  us,  if 
we  work  it  right." 

"But  we  don't  want  that  yet,"  protested  Susan. 

"You're  ready  and  so  am  I,"  declared  Palmer  in 
the  tone  she  knew  had  the  full  strength  of  his  will 
back  of  it. 

Faint  angry  hissing  from  the  stalls  silenced  them,  but 
as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  auto  Susan  resumed.  "I  have 
told  Mr.  Brent  we  don't  want  to  meet  his  friends  yet." 

"Now  what  the  hell  did  you  do  that  for?"  demanded 
Freddie.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  crossed  him ;  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  been  reminiscent  of  the  Freddie 
she  used  to  know. 

"Because,"  said  she  evenly,  "I  will  not  meet  people 
under  false  pretenses." 

"What  rot!" 

"I  will  not  do  it,"  replied  she  in  the  same  quiet  way. 

He  assumed  that  she  meant  only  one  of  the  false  pre 
tenses — the  one  that  seemed  the  least  to  her.  He  said : 

"Then  we'll  draw  up  and  sign  a  marriage  contract 
395 


SUSAN   LENOX 


and  date  it  a  couple  of  years  ago,  before  the  new  mar 
riage  law  was  passed  to  save  rich  men's  drunken  sons 
from  common  law  wives." 

"I  am  already  married,"  said  Susan.  "To  a  farmer 
out  in  Indiana." 

Freddie  laughed.  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!  You! 
You!"  He  looked  at  her  ermine-lined  cloak  and 
laughed  again.  "An  Indiana  farmer!"  Then  he  sud 
denly  sobered.  "Come  to  think  of  it,"  said  he,  "that's 
the  first  thing  you  ever  told  me  about  your  past." 

"Or  anybody  else,"  said  Susan.  Her  body  was 
quivering,  for  we  remember  the  past  events  with  the 
sensations  they  made  upon  us  at  the  time.  She  could 
smell  that  little  room  in  the  farmhouse.  Allen  Street 
and  all  the  rest  of  her  life  in  the  underworld  had  for 
her  something  of  the  vagueness  of  dreams — not  only 
now  but  also  while  she  was  living  that  life.  But  not 
Ferguson,  not  the  night  when  her  innocent  soul  was 
ravished  as  a  wolf  rips  up  and  munches  a  bleating  lamb. 
No  vagueness  of  dreams  about  that,  but  a  reality  to 
make  her  shudder  and  reel  whenever  she  thought  of 
it — a  reality  vivider  now  that  she  was  a  woman  grown 
in  experiences  and  understanding. 

"He's  probably  dead — or  divorced  you  long  ago." 

"I  do  not  know." 

"I  can  find  out — without  stirring  things  up.  What 
was  his  name?" 

"Ferguson." 

"What  was  his  first  name?" 

She  tried  to  recall.  "I  think — it  was  Jim.  Yes,  it 
was  Jim."  She  fancied  she  could  hear  the  voice  of  that 
ferocious  sister  snapping  out  that  name  in  the  mis 
erable  little  coop  of  a  general  room  in  that  hot,  foul, 
farm  cottage. 

396 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Where  did  he  live?" 

"His  farm  was  at  the  edge  of  Zeke  Warham's  place 
— not  far  from  Beecamp,  in  Jefferson  County." 

She  lapsed  into  silence,  seemed  to  be  watching1  the 
gay  night  streets  of  the  Montmartre  district — the  cafes, 
the  music  halls,  the  sidewalk  shows,  the  throngs  of 
people  every  man  and  woman  of  them  with  his  or  her 
own  individual  variation  upon  the  fascinating,  covertly 
terrible  face  of  the  Paris  mob.  "What  are  you  think 
ing  about?"  he  asked,  when  a  remark  brought  no  an 
swer. 

"The  past,"  said  she.     "And  the  future." 

"Well — we'll  find  out  in  a  few  days  that  your  farm 
er's  got  no  claim  on  you — and  we'll  attend  to  that  mar 
riage  contract  and  everything'll  be  all  right." 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  me?"  she  asked,  turning  on 
him  suddenly. 

"We're  as  good  as  married  already,"  replied  he. 
"Your  tone  sounds  as  if  you  didn't  want  to  marry  me." 
And  he  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  such  an  idea. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not,"  said  she  slowly. 

He  laid  a  gentle  strong  hand  on  her  knee.  Gentle 
though  it  was,  she  felt  its  strength  through  the  thick 
ness  of  her  cloak.  "When  the  time  comes,"  said  he  in 
the  soft  voice  with  the  menace  hidden  in  it,  "you'll 
know  whether  you  do  or  don't.  You'll  know  you  do — 
Queenie." 

The  auto  was  at  the  curb  before  the  Abbaye.  And 
on  the  steps,  in  furs  and  a  top  hat,  stood  the  tall, 
experienced  looking,  cynical  looking  playwright. 
Susan's  eyes  met  his,  he  lifted  his  hat,  formal,  polite. 

"I'll  bet  he's  got  the  best  table  in  the  place,"  said 
Palmer,  before  opening  the  door,  "and  I'll  bet  it  cost 
him  a  bunch." 

397 


XXI 

BRENT  had  an  apartment  in  the  rue  de  Rivoli, 
near  the  Hotel  Meurice  and  high  enough  to  com 
mand  the  whole  Tuileries  garden.  From  his  bal 
cony  he  could  see  to  the  east  the  ancient  courts  of  the 
Louvre,  to  the  south  the  varied,  harmonious  fa9ades  of 
the  Quay  d'Orsay  with  the  domes  and  spires  of  the 
Left  Bank  behind,  to  the  west  the  Obelisque,  the  long 
broad  reaches  of  the  Champs  Elysees  with  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  at  the  boundary  of  the  horizon.  On  that 
balcony,  with  the  tides  of  traffic  far  below,  one  had  a 
sense  of  being  at  the  heart  of  the  world,  past,  present, 
and  to  come.  Brent  liked  to  feel  at  home  wherever 
he  was ;  it  enabled  him  to  go  tranquilly  to  work  within 
a  few  minutes  after  his  arrival,  no  matter  how  far 
he  had  journeyed  or  how  long  he  had  been  away.  So 
he  regarded  it  as  an  economy,  an  essential  to  good 
work,  to  keep  up  the  house  in  New  York,  a  villa  in 
Petite  Afrique,  with  the  Mediterranean  washing  its 
garden  wall,  this  apartment  at  Paris;  and  a  telegram 
a  week  in  advance  would  reserve  him  the  same  quarters 
in  the  quietest  part  of  hotels  at  Luzerne,  at  St.  Moritz 
and  at  Biarritz. 

Susan  admired,  as  he  explained  his  scheme  of  life 
to  her  and  Palmer  when  they  visited  his  apartment. 
Always  profound  tranquillity  in  the  midst  of  intense 
activity.  He  could  shut  his  door  and  be  as  in  a  desert ; 
he  could  open  it,  and  the  most  interesting  of  the  sensa 
tions  created  by  the  actions  and  reactions  of  the  whole 
human  race  were  straightway  beating  upon  his  senses. 

398 


SUSAN  LENOX 


As  she  listened,  she  looked  about,  her  eyes  taking  in 
impressions  to  be  studied  at  leisure.  These  quarters 
of  his  in  Paris  were  fundamentally  different  from  those 
in  New  York,  were  the  expression  of  a  different  side  of 
his  personality.  It  was  plain  that  he  loved  them,  that 
they  came  nearer  to  expressing  his  real — that  is,  his 
inmost — self. 

"Though  I  work  harder  in  Paris  than  in  New  York," 
he  explained,  "I  have  more  leisure  because  it  is  all  one 
kind  of  work — writing — at  which  I'm  never  interrupted. 
So  I  have  time  to  make  surroundings  for  myself.  No 
one  has  time  for  surroundings  in  New  York." 

She  observed  that  of  the  scores  of  pictures  on  the 
walls,  tables,  shelves  of  the  three  rooms  they  were 
shown,  every  one  was  a  face — faces  of  all  nationalities, 
all  ages,  all  conditions — faces  happy  and  faces  tragic, 
faces  homely,  faces  beautiful,  faces  irradiating  the 
fascination  of  those  abnormal  developments  of  char 
acter,  good  and  bad,  which  give  the  composite  coun 
tenance  of  the  human  race  its  distinction,  as  the  char 
acteristics  themselves  give  it  intensities  of  light  and 
shade.  She  saw  angels,  beautiful  and  ugly,  devils  beau 
tiful  and  ugly. 

When  she  began  to  notice  this  peculiarity  of  those 
rooms,  she  was  simply  interested.  What  an  amazing 
collection!  How  much  time  and  thought  it  must  have 
taken!  How  he  must  have  searched — and  what  an 
instinct  he  had  for  finding  the  unusual,  the  significant ! 
As  she  sat  there  and  then  strolled  about  and  then  sat 
again,  her  interest  rose  into  a  feverish  excitement.  It 
was  as  if  the  ghosts  of  all  these  personalities,  not  one 
of  them  commonplace,  were  moving  through  the  rooms, 
were  pressing  upon  her.  She  understood  why  Brent 
had  them  there — that  they  were  as  necessary  to  him 

399 


SUSAN   LENOX 


as  cadavers  and  skeletons  and  physiological  charts  to 
an  anatomist.  But  they  oppressed,  suffocated  her;  she 
went  out  on  the  balcony  and  watched  the  effects  of  the 
light  from  the  setting  sun  upon  and  around  the  enor 
mously  magnified  Arc. 

"You  don't  like  my  rooms,"  said  Brent. 

"They  fascinate  me,"  replied  she.  "But  I'd  have  to 
get  used  to  these  friends  of  yours.  You  made  their 
acquaintance  one  or  a  few  at  a  time.  It's  very  up 
setting,  being  introduced  to  all  at  once." 

She  felt  Brent's  gaze  upon  her — that  unfathomable 
look  which  made  her  uneasy,  yet  was  somehow  sat 
isfying,  too.  He  said,  after  a  while,  "Palmer  is  to  give 
me  his  photograph.  Will  you  give  me  yours?"  He 
was  smiling.  "Both  of  you  belong  in  my  gallery." 

"Of  course  she  will,"  said  Palmer,  coming  out  on 
the  balcony  and  standing  beside  her.  "I  want  her  to 
have  some  taken  right  away — in  the  evening  dress  she 
wore  to  the  Opera  last  week.  And  she  must  have  her 
portrait  painted." 

"When  we  are  settled,"  said  Susan.  "I've  no  time 
for  anything  now  but  shopping." 

They  had  come  to  inspect  the  apartment  above 
Brent's,  and  had  decided  to  take  it;  Susan  saw  possi 
bilities  of  making  it  over  into  the  sort  of  environment 
of  which  she  had  dreamed.  In  novels  the  descriptions 
of  interiors,  which  weary  most  readers,  interested  her 
more  than  story  or  characters.  In  her  days  of  abject 
poverty  she  used  these  word  paintings  to  construct 
for  herself  a  room,  suites  of  rooms,  a  whole  house,  to 
replace,  when  her  physical  eyes  closed  and  her  eyes 
of  fancy  opened  wide,  the  squalid  and  nauseous  cell  to 
which  poverty  condemned  her.  In  the  streets  she  would 
sometimes  pause  before  a  sh/ro  window  display  of  in- 

400 


SUSAN   LENOX 


terior  furnishings ;  a  beautiful  table  or  chair,  a  design 
in  wall  or  floor  covering  had  caught  her  eyes,  had  set 
her  to  dreaming — dreaming  on  and  on — she  in  dingy 
skirt  and  leaky  shoes.  Now — the  chance  to  realize  her 
dreams  had  come.  Palmer  had  got  acquainted  with 
some  high-class  sports,  American,  French  and  English* 
at  an  American  bar  in  the  rue  Volney.  He  was  spend 
ing  his  afternoons  and  some  of  his  evenings  with  them 
— in  the  evenings  winning  large  sums  from  them  at 
cards  at  which  he  was  now  as  lucky  as  at  everything  else. 
Palmer,  pleased  by  Brent's  manner  toward  Susan — 
formal  politeness,  indifference  to  sex — was  glad  to  have 
him  go  about  with  her.  Also  Palmer  was  one  of  those 
men  who  not  merely  imagine  they  read  human  nature 
but  actually  can  read  it.  He  knew  he  could  trust 
Susan.  And  it  had  been  his  habit — as  it  is  the  habit 
of  all  successful  men — to  trust  human  beings,  each  one 
up  to  his  capacity  for  resisting  temptation  to  treach 
ery. 

"Brent  doesn't  care  for  women — as  women,"  said  he. 
"He  never  did.  Don't  you  think  he's  queer ?" 

"He's  different,"  replied  Susan.  "He  doesn't  care 
much  for  people — to  have  them  as  intimates.  I  under 
stand  why.  Love  and  friendship  bore  one — or  fail  one 
— and  are  unsatisfactory — and  disturbing.  But  if  one 
centers  one's  life  about  things — books,  pictures,  art,  a 
career — why,  one  is  never  bored  or  betrayed.  He  has 
solved  the  secret  of  happiness,  I  think." 

"Do  you  think  a  woman  could  fall  in  love  with  him  ?" 
he  asked,  with  an  air  of  the  accidental  and  casual. 

"If  you  mean,  could  I  fall  in  love  with  him,"  said 
she,  "I  should  say  no.  I  think  it  would  either  amuse 
or  annoy  him  to  find  that  a  woman  cared  about  him." 

"Amuse  him  most  of  all,"  said  Palmer.  "He  knows 
401 


SUSAN   LENOX 


the  ladies — that  they  love  us  men   for  what  we  can 
give   them." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  anyone,  man  or  woman,  who 
cared  about  a  person  who  couldn't  give  them  any 
thing?" 

Freddie's  laugh  was  admission  that  he  thought  her 
right.  "The  way  to  get  on  in  politics,"  observed  he, 
"is  to  show  men  that  it's  to  their  best  interest  to  sup 
port  you.  And  that's  the  way  to  get  on  in  everything 
else — including  love." 

Susan  knew  that  this  was  the  truth  about  life,  as  it 
appeared  to  her  also.  But  she  could  not  divest  herself 
of  the  human  aversion  to  hearing  the  cold,  practical 
truth.  She  wanted  sugar  coating  on  the  pill,  even 
though  she  knew  the  sugar  made  the  medicine  much  less 
effective,  often  neutralized  it  altogether.  Thus  Palm 
er's  brutally  frank  cynicism  got  upon  her  nerves,  where 
as  Brent's  equally  frank  cynicism  attracted  her  because 
it  was  not  brutal.  Both  men  saw  that  life  was  a  coarse 
practical  joke.  Palmer  put  the  stress  on  the  coarse 
ness,  Brent  upon  the  humor. 

Brent  recommended  and  introduced  to  her  a  friend 
of  his,  a  young  French  Jew  named  Gourdain,  an  archi 
tect  on  the  way  up  to  celebrity.  "You  will  like  his 
ideas  and  he  will  like  yours,"  said  Brent. 

She  had  acquiesced  in  his  insistent  friendship  for 
Palmer  and  her,  but  she  had  not  lowered  by  an  inch  the 
barrier  of  her  reserve  toward  him.  His  speech  and 
actions  at  all  times,  whether  Palmer  was  there  or  not, 
suggested  that  he  respected  the  barrier,  regarded  it  as 
even  higher  and  thicker  than  it  was.  Nevertheless  she 
felt  that  he  really  regarded  the  barrier  as  non-existent. 
She  said: 

"But  I've  never  told  you  my  ideas." 
402 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"I  can  guess  what  they  are.  Your  surroundings  will 
simply  be  an  extension  of  your  dress." 

She  would  not  have  let  him  see — she  would  not  have 
admitted  to  herself — how  profoundly  the  subtle  compli 
ment  pleased  her. 

Because  a  man's  or  a  woman's  intimate  personal  taste 
is  good  it  by  no  means  follows  that  he  or  she  will  build 
or  decorate  or  furnish  a  house  well.  In  matters  of 
taste,  the  greater  does  not  necessarily  include  the  less, 
nor  does  the  less  imply  the  greater.  Perhaps  Susan 
would  have  shown  she  did  not  deserve  Brent's  compli 
ment,  would  have  failed  ignominiously  in  that  first  essay 
of  hers,  had  she  not  found  a  Gourdain,  sympathetic, 
able  to  put  into  the  concrete  the  rather  vague  ideas 
she  had  evolved  in  her  dreaming.  An  architect  is  like  a 
milliner  or  a  dressmaker.  He  supplies  the  model, 
product  of  his  own  individual  taste.  The  person  who 
employs  him  must  remold  that  form  into  an  expression 
of  his  own  personality — for  people  who  deliberately 
live  in  surroundings  that  are  not  part  of  themselves 
are  on  the  same  low  level  with  those  who  utter  only  bor 
rowed  ideas.  That  is  the  object  and  the  aim  of  civ 
ilization — to  encourage  and  to  compel  each  individual 
to  be  frankly  himself — herself.  That  is  the  profound 
meaning  of  freedom.  The  world  owes  more  to  bad 
morals  and  to  bad  taste  that  are  spontaneous  than  to 
all  the  docile  conformity  to  the  standards  of  morals  and 
of  taste,  however  good.  Truth — which  simply  means 
an  increase  of  harmony,  a  decrease  of  discord,  between 
the  internal  man  and  his  environment — truth  is  a  prod 
uct,  usually  a  byproduct,  of  a  ferment  of  action* 

Gourdain — chiefly,  no  doubt,  because  Susan's  beauty 
of  face  and  figure  and  dress  fascinated  him — was  more 
eager  to  bring  out  her  individuality  than  to  show  off 


SUSAN  LENOX 


his  own  talents.  He  took  endless  pains  with  her,  taught 
her  the  technical  knowledge  and  vocabulary  that  would 
enable  her  to  express  herself,  then  carried  out  her  ideas 
religiously.  "You  are  right,  mon  ami"  said  he  to 
Brent.  "She  is  an  orchid,  and  of  a  rare  species.  She 
has  a  glorious  imagination,  like  a  bird  of  paradise 
balancing  itself  into  an  azure  sky,  with  every  plume 
raining  color  and  brilliancy." 

"Somewhat  exaggerated,"  was  Susan's  pleased,  laugh 
ing  comment  when  Brent  told  her. 

"Somewhat,"  said  Brent.  "But  my  friend  Gourdain 
is  stark  mad  about  women's  dressing  well.  That  lilac 
dress  you  had  on  yesterday  did  for  him.  He  was  your 
servant ;  he  is  your  slave." 

Abruptly — for  no  apparent  cause,  as  was  often  the 
case — Susan  had  that  sickening  sense  of  the  unreality 
of  her  luxurious  present,  of  being  about  to  awaken  in 
Vine  Street  with  Etta — or  in  the  filthy  bed  with  old 
Mrs.  Tucker.  Absently  she  glanced  down  at  her  foot, 
holding  it  out  as  if  for  inspection.  She  saw  Brent's 
look  of  amusement  at  her  seeming  vanity. 

"I  was  looking  to  see  if  my  shoes  were  leaky,"  she 
explained. 

A  subtle  change  came  over  his  face.  He  understood 
instantly. 

"Have  you  ever  been — cold?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
him  strangely. 

"One  cold  February — cold  and  damp — I  had  no 
underclothes — and  no  overcoat."  ^ 

"And  dirty  beds — filthy  rooms — filthy  people?" 

"A  ten-cent  lodging  house  with  a  tramp  for  bed 
fellow." 

They  were  looking  at  each  other,  with  the  perfect 
understanding  and  sympathy  that  can  come  only  to 


SUSAN   LENOX 


two  people  of  the  same  fiber  who  have  braved  the  same 
storms.  Each  glanced  hastily  away. 

Her  enthusiasm  for  doing  the  apartment  was  due 
full  as  much  to  the  fact  that  it  gave  her  definitely  di 
rected  occupation  as  to  its  congeniality.  That  early 
training  of  hers  from  Aunt  Fanny  Warham  had  made 
it  forever  impossible  for  her  in  any  circumstances  to 
become  the  typical  luxuriously  sheltered  woman, 
whether  legally  or  illegally  kept — the  lie-abed  woman, 
the  woman  who  dresses  only  to  go  out  and  show  off, 
the  woman  who  wastes  her  life  in  petty,  piffling  trifles 
— without  purpose,  without  order  or  system,  without 
morals  or  personal  self-respect.  She  had  never  lost 
the  systematic  instinct — the  instinct  to  use  time  instead 
of  wasting  it — that  Fanny  Warham  had  implanted  in 
her  during  the  years  that  determine  character.  Not 
for  a  moment,  even  without  distinctly  definite  aim,  was 
she  in  danger  of  the  creeping  paralysis  that  is  epidemic 
among  the  rich,  enfeebling  and  slowing  down  mental 
and  physical  activity.  She  had  a  regular  life;  she 
read,  she  walked  in  the  Bois;  she  made  the  best  of 
each  day.  And  when  this  definite  thing  to  accomplish 
offered,  she  did  not  have  to  learn  how  to  work  before 
she  could  begin  the  work  itself. 

All  this  was  nothing  new  to  Gourdain.  He  was  born 
and  bred  in  a  country  where  intelligent  discipline  is 
the  rule  and  the  lack  of  it  the  rare  exception — among 
all  classes — even  among  the  women  of  the  well-to-do 
classes. 

The  finished  apartment  was  a  disappointment  to 
Palmer.  Its  effects  were  too  quiet,  too  restrained. 
Within  certain  small  limits,  those  of  the  man  of  un 
usual  intelligence  but  no  marked  originality,  he  had 
excellent  taste — or,  perhaps,  excellent  ability  to  rec- 

405 


SUSAN   LENOX 


ognize  good  taste.  But  in  the  large  he  yearned  for 
the  grandiose.  He  loved  the  gaudy  with  which  the  rich 
surround  themselves  because  good  taste  forbids  them  to 
talk  of  their  wealth  and  such  surroundings  do  the  talk 
ing  for  them  and  do  it  more  effectively.  He  would  have 
preferred  even  a  vulgar  glitter  to  the  unobtrusiveness 
of  those  rooms.  But  he  knew  that  Susan  was  right,  and 
he  was  a  very  human  arrant  coward  about  admit 
ting  that  he  had  bad  taste. 

"This  is  beautiful — exquisite,"  said  he,  with  feigned 
enthusiasm.  "I'm  afraid,  though,  it'll  be  above  their 
heads." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Susan. 

Palmer  felt  her  restrained  irritation,  hastened  to 
explain.  "I  mean  the  people  who'll  come  here.  They 
won't  appreciate  it.  You  have  to  look  twice  to  appre 
ciate  this — and  people,  the  best  of  'em,  look  only  once 
and  a  mighty  blind  look  it  is." 

But  Susan  was  not  deceived.  "You  must  tell  me 
what  changes  you  want,"  said  she.  Her  momentary 
irritation  had  vanished.  Since  Freddie  was  paying, 
Freddie  must  have  what  suited  him. 

"Oh,  I've  got  nothing  to  suggest.  Now  that  I've  been 
studying  it  out,  I  wouldn't  allow  you  to  make  any 
changes.  It  does  grow  on  one,  doesn't  it,  Brent?" 

"It  will  be  the  talk  of  Paris,"  replied  Brent. 

The  playwright's  tone  settled  the  matter  for  Palmer. 
He  was  content.  Said  he: 

"Thank  God  she  hasn't  put  in  any  of  those  dirty  old 
tapestry  rags — and  the  banged  up,  broken  furniture 
and  the  patched  crockery." 

At  the  same  time  she  had  produced  an  effect  of  long 
tenancy.  There  was  nothing  that  glittered,  nothing 
with  the  offensive  sheen  of  the  brand  new.  There  was 

406 


SUSAN   LENOX 


in  that  delicately  toned  atmosphere  one  suggestion 
which  gave  the  same  impression  as  the  artificial  crimson 
of  her  lips  in  contrast  with  the  pallor  of  her  skin  and 
the  sweet  thoughtful  melancholy  of  her  eyes.  This 
suggestion  came  from  an  all-pervading  odor  of  a  heavy, 
languorously  sweet,  sensuous  perfume — the  same  that 
Susan  herself  used.  She  had  it  made  at  a  perfumer's 
in  the  faubourg  St.  Honore  by  mixing  in  a  certain  pro 
portion  several  of  the  heaviest  and  most  clinging  of 
the  familiar  perfumes. 

"You  don't  like  my  perfume?"  she  said  to  Brent  one 
day. 

He  was  in  the  library,  was  inspecting  her  selections 
of  books.  Instead  of  answering  her  question,  he  said: 

"How  did  you  find  out  so  much  about  books?  How 
did  you  find  time  to  read  so  many?" 

"One  always  finds  time  for  what  one  likes." 

"Not  always,"  said  he.  "I  had  a  hard  stretch  once — 
just  after  I  struck  New  York.  I  was  a  waiter  for 
two  months.  Working  people  don't  find  time  for  read 
ing — and  such  things." 

"That  was  one  reason  why  I  gave  up  work,"  said  she. 

"That — and  the  dirt — and  the  poor  wages — and  the 
hopelessness — and  a  few  other  reasons,"  said  he. 

"Why  don't  you  like  the  perfume  I  use?" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"You  made  a  queer  face  as  you  came  into  the  draw 
ing-room." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"What  a  queer  question !"  she  said.  "No  other  man 
would  have  asked  it." 

"The  obvious,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
*'I  couldn't  help  knowing  you  didn't  like  it." 

"Then  why  should  I  use  it?" 

407 


SUSAN   LENOX 


His  glance  drifted  slowly  away  from  hers.  He  lit 
a  cigarette  with  much  attention  to  detail. 

"Why  should  I  use  perfume  I  don't  like?"  persisted 
she. 

"What's  the  use  of  going  into  that?"  said  he. 

"But  I  do  like  it — in  a  way,"  she  went  on  after  a 
pause.  "It  is — it  seems  to  me — the  odor  of  myself." 

"Yes— it  is,"  he  admitted. 

She  laughed.     "Yet  you  made  a  wry  face." 

"I  did." 

«At  the  odor?" 

«At  the  odor." 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  change  to  another  per 
fume?" 

"You  know  I  do  not.  It's  the  odor  of  your  soul.  It 
is  different  at  different  times — sometimes  inspiringly 
sweet  as  the  incense  of  heaven,  as  my  metaphoric  friend 
Gourdain  would  say — sometimes  as  deadly  sweet  as 
the  odors  of  the  drugs  men  take  to  drag  them  to  hell — 
sometimes  repulsively  sweet,  making  one  heart  sick  for 
pure,  clean  smell-less  air  yet  without  the  courage  to 
seek  it.  Your  perfume  is  many  things,  but  always — 
always  strong  and  tenacious  and  individual." 

A  flush  had  overspread  the  pallor  of  her  skin;  her 
long  dark  lashes  hid  her  eyes. 

"You  have  never  been  in  love,"  he  went  on. 

"So  you  told  me  once  before."  It  was  the  first  time 
either  had  referred  to  their  New  York  acquaintance. 

"You  did  not  believe  me  then.     But  you  do  now?" 

"For  me  there  is  no  such  thing  as  love,"  replied  she. 
"I  understand  affection — I  have  felt  it.  I  understand 
passion.  It  is  a  strong  force  in  my  life — perhaps  the 
strongest." 

"No,"  said  he,  quiet  but  positive. 

408 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Perhaps  not,"  replied  she  carelessly,  and  went  on, 
with  her  more  than  manlike  candor,  and  in  her  manner 
of  saying  the  most  startling  things  in  the  calmest  way : 

"I  understand  what  is  called  love — feebleness  look 
ing  up  to  strength  or  strength  pitying  feebleness.  I 
understand  because  I've  felt  both  those  things.  But 
love — two  equal  people  united  perfectly,  merged  into 
a  third  person  who  is  neither  yet  is  both — that  I  have 
not  felt.  I've  dreamed  it.  I've  imagined  it — in  some 
moments  of  passion.  But" — she  laughed  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  waved  the  hand  with  the  cigarette 
between  its  fingers — "I  have  not  felt  it  and  I  shall  not 
feel  it.  I  remain  I."  She  paused,  considered,  added, 
"And  I  prefer  that." 

"You  are  strong,"  said  he,  absent  and  reflective. 
"Yes,  you  are  strong." 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  she.  "Sometimes  I  think  so. 
Again "  She  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"You  would  be  dead  if  you  were  not.  As  strong  in 
soul  as  in  body." 

"Probably,"  admitted  she.  "Anyhow,  I  am  sure  I 
shall  always  be — alone.  I  shall  visit — I  shall  linger 
on  my  threshold  and  talk.  Perhaps  I  shall  wander  in 
perfumed  gardens  and  dream  of  comradeship.  But  I 
shall  return  chez  moi." 

He  rose — sighed — laughed — at  her  and  at  himself. 
"Don't  delay  too  long,"  said  he. 

"Delay?" 

"Your  career." 

"My  career?  Why,  I  am  in  the  full  swing  of  it. 
I'm  at  work  in  the  only  profession  I'm  fit  for." 

"The  profession   of  woman?" 

"Yes — the  profession  of  female." 

He  winced — and  at  this  sign,  if  she  did  not  ask 
409 


SUSAN   LENOX 


herself  what  pleased  her,  she  did  not  ask  herself  why. 
He  said  sharply,  "I  don't  like  that." 

"But  you  have  only  to  hear  it.  Think  of  poor  me 
who  have  to  live  it." 

"Have  to?    No,"  said  he. 

"Surely  you're  not  suggesting  that  I  drop  back  into 
the  laboring  classes !  No,  thank  you.  If  you  knew, 
you'd  not  say  anything  so  stupid." 

"I  do  know,  and  I  was  not  suggesting  that.  Under 
this  capitalistic  system  the  whole  working  class  is  de 
graded.  They  call  what  they  do  'work,'  but  that  word 
ought  to  be  reserved  for  what  a  man  does  when  he  exer 
cises  mind  and  body  usefully.  What  the  working 
class  is  condemned  to  by  capitalism  is  not  work  but 
toil." 

"The  toil  of  a  slave,"  said  Susan. 

"It's  shallow  twaddle  or  sheer  cant  to  talk  about 
the  dignity  and  beauty  of  labor  under  this  system," 
he  went  on.  "It  is  ugly  and  degrading.  The  fools  or 
hypocrites  who  talk  that  way  ought  to  be  forced  to 
join  the  gangs  of  slaves  at  their  tasks  in  factory  and 
mine  and  shop,  in  the  fields  and  the  streets.  And  even 
the  easier  and  better  paid  tasks,  even  what  the  cap 
italists  themselves  do — those  things  aren't  dignified  and 
beautiful.  Capitalism  divides  all  men — except  those 
of  one  class — the  class  to  which  I  luckily  belong — 
divides  all  other  men  into  three  unlovely  classes — slave 
owners,  slave  drivers  and  slaves.  But  you're  not  in 
terested  in  those  questions." 

"In  wage  slavery?  No.  I  wish  to  forget  about  it. 
Any  alternative  to  being  a  wage  slave — or  a  slave 
driver — or  a  slave  owner.  Any  alternative." 

"You  don't  appreciate  your  own  good  fortune,"  said 
he.  "Most  human  beings — all  but  a  very  few — have 

410 


SUSAN  LENOX 


to  be  in  the  slave  classes,  in  one  way  or  another.  They 
have  to  submit  to  the  repulsive  drudgery,  with  no 
advancement  except  to  slave  driver.  As  for  women — 
if  they  have  to  work,  what  can  they  do  but  sell  them 
selves  into  slavery  to  the  machines,  to  the  capitalists? 
But  you — you  needn't  do  that.  Nature  endowed  you 
with  talent — unusual  talent,  I  believe.  How  lucky  you 
are!  How  superior  to  the  great  mass  of  your  fellow 
beings  who  must  slave  or  starve,  because  they  have  no 
talent!" 

"Talent?— I?"  said  Susan.     "For  what,  pray?" 

"For  the  stage." 

She  looked  amused.  "You  evidently  don't  think  me 
vain — or  you'd  not  venture  that  jest." 

"For  the  stage,"  he  repeated. 

"Thanks,"  said  she  drily,  "but  I'll  not  appeal  from 
your  verdict." 

"My  verdict?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  prefer  to  talk  of  something  else,"  said  she  coldly, 
offended  by  his  unaccountable  disregard  of  her  feel 
ings. 

"This  is  bewildering,"  said  he.  And  his  manner  cer 
tainly  fitted  the  words. 

"That  I  should  have  understood?  Perhaps  I 
shouldn't — at  least,  not  so  quickly — if  I  hadn't  heard 
how  often  you  have  been  disappointed,  and  how  hard 
it  has  been  for  you  to  get  rid  of  some  of  those  you 
tried  and  found  wanting." 

"Believe  me — I  was  not  disappointed  in  you."  He 
spoke  earnestly,  apparently  with  sincerity.  "The  con 
trary.  Your  throwing  it  all  up  was  one  of  the  shocks 
of  my  life." 

She  laughed  mockingly — to  hide  her  sensitiveness. 

"One  of  the  shocks  of  my  life,"  he  repeated. 
411 


SUSAN   LENOX 


She  was  looking  at  him  curiously — wondering  why 
he  was  thus  uncandid. 

"It  puzzled  me,"  he  went  on.  "I've  been  lingering  on 
here,  trying  to  solve  the  puzzle.  And  the  more  I've  seen 
of  you  the  less  I  understand.  Why  did  you  do  it?  How 
could  you  do  it?" 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  char 
acteristic  pose — hands  clasped  behind  his  back  as  if 
to  keep  them  quiet,  body  erect,  head  powerfully  thrust 
forward.  He  halted  abruptly  and  wheeled  to  face 
her.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  didn't  get  tired  of 
work  and  drop  it  for — "  he  waved  his  arm  to  indicate 
her  luxurious  surroundings — "for  this?" 

No  sign  of  her  agitation  showed  at  the  surface.  But 
she  felt  she  was  not  concealing  herself  from  him. 

He  resumed  his  march,  presently  to  halt  and  wheel 
again  upon  her.  But  before  he  could  speak,  she  stopped 
him. 

"I  don't  wish  to  hear  any  more,"  said  she,  the 
strange  look  in  her  eyes.  It  was  all  she  could  do  to 
hide  the  wild  burst  of  emotion  that  had  followed  her 
discovery.  Then  she  had  not  been  without  a  chance 
for  a  real  career!  She  might  have  been  free,  might 
have  belonged  to  herself 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  cried  he.  "That's  why  I'm 
here." 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  said. 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  repeated  he,  harshly,  in  his  way 
that  swept  aside  opposition.  "I  shall  get  you  back." 
Triumphantly,  "The  puzzle  is  solved !" 

She  faced  him  with  a  look  of  defiant  negation.  "That 
ocean  I  crossed — it's  as  narrow  as  the  East  River  into 
which  I  thought  of  throwing  myself  many  a  time — it's 
as  narrow  as  the  East  River  beside  the  ocean  between 

412 


SUSAN   LENOX 


what  I  am  and  what  I  was.  And  I'll  never  go  back. 
Never!" 

She  repeated  the  "never"  quietly,  under  her  breath. 
His  eyes  looked  as  if  they,  without  missing  an  essential 
detail,  had  swept  the  whole  of  that  to  which  she  would 
never  go  back.  He  said: 

"Go  back?  No,  indeed.  Who's  asking  you  to  go 
back?  Not  I.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  go  anywhere. 
I'm  simply  saying  that  you  will — must — go  forward. 
If  you  were  in  love,  perhaps  not.  But  you  aren't  in 
love.  I  know  from  experience  how  men  and  women  care 
for  each  other — how  they  form  these  relationships. 
They  find  each  other  convenient  and  comfortable.  But 
they  care  only  for  themselves.  Especially  young  peo 
ple.  One  must  live  quite  a  while  to  discover  that  think 
ing  about  oneself  is  living  in  a  stuffy  little  cage  with 
only  a  little  light,  through  slats  in  the  top  that  give 
no  view.  ...  It's  an  unnatural  life  for  you.  It  can't 
last.  You — centering  upon  yourself — upon  comfort 
and  convenience.  Absurd!" 

"I  have  chosen,"  said  she. 

"No — you  can't  do  it,"  he  went  on,  as  if  she  had  not 
spoken.  "You  can't  spend  your  life  at  dresses  and 
millinery,  at  chattering  about  art,  at  thinking  about 
eating  and  drinking — at  being  passively  amused — at 
attending  to  your  hair  and  skin  and  figure.  You  may 
think  so,  but  in  reality  you  are  getting  ready  for 
me  .  .  .  for  your  career.  You  are  simply  educating 
yourself.  I  shall  have  you  back." 

She  held  the  cigarette  to  her  lips,  inhaled  the  smoke 
deeply,  exhaled  it  slowly. 

"I  will  tell  you  why,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he  were  an 
swering  a  protest.  "Every  one  of  us  has  an  individ 
uality  of  some  sort.  And  in  spite  of  everything  and 
30  413 


SUSAN   LENOX 


anything,  except  death  or  hopeless  disease,   that  in 
dividuality  will  insist  upon  expressing  itself." 

"Mine  is  expressing  itself,"  said  she  with  a  light 
smile — the  smile  of  a  light  woman. 

"You  can't  rest  in  this  present  life  of  yours.  Your 
individuality  is  too  strong.  It  will  have  its  way — 
and  for  all  your  mocking  smiling,  you  know  I  am 
right.  I  understand  how  you  were  tempted  into 
it " 

She  opened  her  lips — changed  her  mind  and  stopped 
her  lips  with  her  cigarette. 

"I  don't  blame  you — and  it  was  just  as  well.  This 
life  has  taught  you — will  teach  you — will  advance  you 
in  your  career.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  what  gave  you  the  idea 
that  I  was  disappointed?" 

She  tossed  her  cigarette  into  the  big  ash  tray.  "As 
I  told  you,  it  is  too  late."  She  rose  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  strange,  sweet  smile.  "I've  got  any  quantity 
of  faults,"  said  she.  "But  there's  one  I  haven't  got. 
I  don't  whine." 

"You  don't  whine,"  assented  he,  "and  you  don't  lie — 
and  you  don't  shirk.  Men  and  women  have  been  can 
onized  for  less.  I  understand  that  for  some  reason  you 
can't  talk  about " 

"Then  why  do  you  continue  to  press  me?"  said  she, 
a  little  coldly. 

He  accepted  the  rebuke  with  a  bow.  "Nevertheless," 
said  he,  with  raillery  to  carry  off  his  persistence,  "I 
shall  get  you.  If  not  sooner,  then  when  the  specter  of 
an  obscure — perhaps  poor — old  age  begins  to  agitate 
the  rich  hangings  of  youth's  banquet  hall." 

"That'll  be  a  good  many  years  yet,"  mocked  she. 
And  from  her  lovely  young  face  flashed  the  radiant 
defiance  of  her  perfect  youth  and  health. 

414 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Years  that  pass  quickly,"  retorted  he,  unmoved. 

She  was  still  radiant,  still  smiling,  bait  once  more 
she  was  seeing  the  hideous  old  women  of  the  tenements. 
Into  her  nostrils  stole  the  stench  of  the  foul  den  in 
which  she  had  slept  with  Mrs.  Tucker  and  Mrs.  Rear- 
don — and  she  was  hearing  the  hunchback  of  the  dive 
playing  for  the  drunken  dancing  old  cronies,  with  their 
tin  cups  of  whiskey. 

No  danger  of  that  now?  How  little  she  was  saving 
of  her  salary  from  Palmer !  She  could  not  "work"  men 
— she  simply  could  not.  She  would  never  put  by  enough 
to  be  independent  and  every  day  her  tastes  for  luxury 
had  firmer  hold  upon  her.  No  danger?  As  much  dan 
ger  as  ever — a  danger  postponed  but  certain  to  threaten 
some  day — and  then,  a  fall  from  a  greater  height — a 
certain  fall.  She  was  hearing  the  battered,  shattered 
piano  of  the  dive. 

"For  pity's  sake — Mrs.  Palmer!"  cried  Brent,  in  a 
low  voice. 

She  started.  The  beautiful  room,  the  environment 
of  luxury  and  taste  and  comfort  came  back. 

Gourdain  interrupted  and  then  Palmer. 

The  four  went  to  the  Cafe  Anglais  for  dinner. 
Brent  announced  that  he  was  going  to  the  Riviera  soon 
to  join  a  party  of  friends.  "I  wish  you  would  visit 
me  later,"  said  he,  with  a  glance  that  included  them  all 
and  rested,  as  courtesy  required,  upon  Susan.  "There's 
room  in  my  villa — barely  room." 

"We've  not  really  settled  here,"  said  Susan.  "And 
we've  taken  up  French  seriously." 

"The  weather's  frightful,"  said  Palmer,  with  a  mean 
ing  glance  at  her.  "I  think  we  ought  to  go." 

But  her  expression  showed  that  she  had  no  intention 
of  going,  no  sympathy  with  Palmer's  desire  to  use  this 

415 


SUSAN  LENOX 


excellent,  easy  ladder  of  Brent's  offering  to  make  the 
ascent  into  secure  respectability. 

"Next  winter,  then,"  said  Brent,  who  was  observing 
her.  "Or — in  the  early  spring,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  we  may  change  our  minds  and  come,"  Palmer 
suggested  eagerly.  "I'm  going  to  try  to  persuade  my 
wife." 

"Come  if  you  can,"  said  Brent  cordially.  "I'll  have 
no  one  stopping  with  me." 

When  they  were  alone,  Palmer  sent  his  valet  away 
and  fussed  about  impatiently  until  Susan's  maid  had 
unhooked  her  dress  and  had  got  her  ready  for  bed.  As 
the  maid  began  the  long  process  of  giving  her  hair  a 
thorough  brushing,  he  said,  "Please  let  her  go,  Susan. 
I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"She  does  not  know  a  word  of  English." 

"But  these  French  are  so  clever  that  they  under 
stand  perfectly  with  their  eyes." 

Susan  sent  the  maid  to  bed  and  sat  in  a  dressing 
gown  brushing  her  hair.  It  was  long  enough  to  reach 
to  the  middle  of  her  back  and  to  cover  her  bosom.  It 
was  very  thick  and  wavy.  Now  that  the  scarlet  was 
washed  from  her  lips  for  the  night,  her  eyes  shone  soft 
and  clear  with  no  relief  for  their  almost  tragic  mel 
ancholy.  He  was  looking  at  her  in  profile.  Her  ex 
pression  was  stern  as  well  as  sad — the  soul  of  a  woman 
who  has  suffered  and  has  been  made  strong,  if  not 
hard. 

"I  got  a  letter  from  my  lawyers  today,"  he  began. 
"It  was  about  that  marriage.  I'll  read." 

At  the  word  "marriage,"  she  halted  the  regular 
stroke  of  the  brush.  Her  eyes  gazed  into  the  mirror 
of  the  dressing  table — through  her  reflection  deep  into 
her  life,  deep  into  the  vistas  of  memory.  As  he  un- 

416 


SUSAN   LENOX 


folded  the  letter,  she  leaned  back  in  the  low  chair,  let 
her  hands  drop  to  her  lap. 

"  'As  the  inclosed  documents  show,'  "  he  read,  "  'we 
have  learned  and  have  legally  verified  that  Jeb — not 
James — Ferguson  divorced  his  wife  Susan  Lenox  about 
a  year  after  their  marriage,  on  the  ground  of  deser 
tion;  and  two  years  later  he  fell  through  the  floor  of 
an  old  bridge  near  Brooksburg  and  was  killed.'  " 

The  old  bridge — she  was  feeling  its  loose  flooring 
sag  and  shift  under  the  cautious  hoofs  of  the  horse. 
She  was  seeing  Rod  Spenser  on  the  horse,  behind  him 
a  girl,  hardly  more  than  a  child — under  the  starry  sky 
— exchanging  confidences — talking  of  their  futures. 

"So,  you  see,  you  are  free,"  said  Palmer.  "I  went 
round  to  an  American  lawyer's  office  this  afternoon, 
and  borrowed  an  old  legal  form  book.  And  I've  copied 
out  this  form " 

She  was  hardly  conscious  of  his  laying  papers  on 
the  table  before  her. 

"It's  valid,  as  I've  fixed  things.  The  lawyer  gave 
me  some  paper.  It  has  a  watermark  five  years  old. 
I've  dated  back  two  years — quite  enough.  So  when 
we've  signed,  the  marriage  never  could  be  contested — 
not  even  by  ourselves." 

He  took  the  papers  from  the  table,  laid  them  in  her 
lap.  She  started.  "What  were  you  saying?"  she 
asked.  "What's  this?" 

"What  were  you  thinking  about?"  said  he. 

"I  wasn't  thinking,"  she  answered,  with  her  slow 
sweet  smile  of  self-concealment.  "I  was  feeling — living 
— the  past.  I  was  watching  the  procession." 

He  nodded  understandingly.  "That's  a  kind  of 
time-wasting  that  can  easily  be  overdone." 

"Easily,"  she  agreed.  "Still,  there's  the  lesson.  I 
417 


SUSAN  LENOX 


have  to  remind  myself  of  it  often — always,  when  there's 
anything  that  has  to  be  decided." 

"I've  written  out  two  of  the  forms,"  said  he.  "We 
sign  both.  You  keep  one,  I  the  other.  Why  not  sign 
now?" 

She  read  the  form — the  agreement  to  take  each  other 
as  lawful  husband  and  wife  and  to  regard  the  contract 
as  in  all  respects  binding  and  legal. 

"Do  you  understand  it?"  laughed  he — nervously,  for 
her  manner  was  disquieting. 

"Perfectly." 

"You  stared  at  the  paper  as  if  it  were  a  puzzle." 

"It  is,"  said  she. 

"Come  into  the  library  and  we'll  sign  and  have  it 
over  with." 

She  laid  the  papers  on  the  dressing  table,  took  up  her 
brush,  drew  it  slowly  over  her  hair  several  times. 

"Wake  up,"  cried  he,  good  humoredly.  "Come  on 
into  the  library."  And  he  went  to  the  threshold. 

She  continued  brushing  her  hair.  "I  can't  sign," 
said  she.  There  was  the  complete  absence  of  emotion 
that  caused  her  to  be  misunderstood  always  by  those 
who  did  not  know  her  peculiarities.  No  one  could  have 
suspected  the  vision  of  the  old  women  of  the  dive  be 
fore  her  eyes,  the  sound  of  the  hunchback's  piano  in 
her  ears,  the  smell  of  foul  liquors  and  foul  bodies  and 
foul  breaths  in  her  nostrils.  Yet  she  repeated: 

"No— I  can't  sign." 

He  returned  to  his  chair,  seated  himself,  a  slight 
cloud  on  his  brow,  a  wicked  smile  on  his  lips.  "Now 
what  the  devil!"  said  he  gently,  a  jeer  in  his  quiet  voice. 
"What's  all  this  about?" 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  said  she.     "I  wish  to  live  on 


418 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"But  if  we  do  that  we  can't  get  up  where  we  want 
to  go." 

"I  don't  wish  to  know  anyone  but  interesting  men  of 
the  sort  that  does  things — and  women  of  my  own  sort. 
Those  people  have  no  interest  in  conventionalities." 

"That's  not  the  crowd  we  set  out  to  conquer,"  said 
he.  "You  seem  to  have  forgotten." 

"It's  you  who  have  forgotten,"  replied  she. 

"Yes — yes — I  know,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "I  wasn't 
accusing  you  of  breaking  your  agreement.  You've  lived 
up  to  it — and  more.  But,  Susan,  the  people  you  care 
about  don't  especially  interest  me.  Brent — yes.  He's 
a  man  of  the  world  as  well  as  one  of  the  artistic  chaps. 
But  the  others — they're  beyond  me.  I  admit  it's  all 
fine,  and  I'm  glad  you  go  in  for  it.  But  the  only  crowd 
that's  congenial  to  me  is  the  crowd  that  we've  got  to 
be  married  to  get  in  with." 

She  saw  his  point — saw  it  more  clearly  than  did  he. 
To  him  the  world  of  fashion  and  luxurious  amusement 
seemed  the  only  world  worth  while.  He  accepted  the 
scheme  of  things  as  he  found  it,  had  the  conventional 
ambitions — to  make  in  succession  the  familiar  goals  of 
the  conventional  human  success — power,  wealth,  social 
position.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  any  other 
idea  of  a  successful  life,  of  ambitions  worthy  a 
man's  labor.  It  was  evidence  of  the  excellence  of  his 
mind  that  he  was  able  to  tolerate  the  idea  of  the  pos 
sibility  of  there  being  another  mode  of  success  worth 
while. 

"I'm  helping  you  in  your  ambitions — in  doing  what 
you  think  is  worth  while,"  said  he.  "Don't  you  think 
you  owe  it  to  me  to  help  me  in  mine?" 

He  saw  the  slight  change  of  expression  that  told  him 
Low  deeply  he  had  touched  her. 

419 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"If  I  don't  go  in  for  the  high  society  game,"  he  went 
on,  "I'll  have  nothing  to  do.  I'll  be  adrift — gambling, 
drinking,  yawning  about  and  going  to  pieces.  A  man's 
got  to  have  something  to  work  for — and  he  can't  work 
unless  it  seems  to  him  worth  doing." 

She  was  staring  into  the  mirror,  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  her  chin  upon  her  interlaced  fingers.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  say  how  much  of  his  gentleness  to  her 
was  due  to  her  physical  charm  for  him,  and  how  much 
to  his  respect  for  her  mind  and  her  character.  He 
himself  would  have  said  that  his  weakness  was  alto 
gether  the  result  of  the  spell  her  physical  charm  cast 
over  him.  But  it  is  probable  that  the  other  element 
was  the  stronger. 

"You'll  not  be  selfish,  Susan?"  urged  he.  "You'll 
give  me  a  square  deal." 

"Yes — I  see  that  it  does  look  selfish,"  said  she.  "A 
little  while  ago  I'd  not  have  been  able  to  see  any  deeper 
than  the  looks  of  it.  Freddie,  there  are  some  things 
no  one  has  a  right  to  ask  of  another,  and  no  one  has 
a  right  to  grant." 

The  ugliness  of  his  character  was  becoming  less 
easy  to  control.  This  girl  whom  he  had  picked  up, 
practically  out  of  the  gutter,  and  had  heaped  generosi 
ties  upon,  was  trying  his  patience  too  far.  But  he 
said,  rather  amiably: 

"Certainly  I'm  not  asking  any  such  thing  of  you  in 
asking  you  to  become  a  respectable  married  woman, 
the  wife  of  a  rich  man." 

"Yes — you  are,  Freddie,"  replied  she  gently.  "If 
I  married  you,  I'd  be  signing  an  agreement  to  lead  your 
life,  to  give  up  my  own — an  agreement  to  become  a  sort 
of  woman  I've  no  desire  to  be  and  no  interest  in  being; 
to  give  up  trying  to  become  the  only  sort  of  woman  I 

420 


SUSAN   LENOX 


think  is  worth  while.  When  we  were  discussing  my  com 
ing  with  you,  you  made  this  same  proposal  in  another 
form.  I  refused  it  then.  And  I  refuse  it  now.  It's 
harder  to  refuse  now,  but  I'm  stronger." 

"Stronger,  thanks  to  the  money  you've  got  from  me 
— the  money  and  the  rest  of  it,"  sneered  he. 

"Haven't  I  earned  all  I've  got?"  said  she,  so  calmly 
that  he  did  not  realize  how  the  charge  of  ingratitude, 
unjust  though  it  was,  had  struck  into  her. 

"You  have  changed!"  said  he.  "You're  getting  as 
hard  as  the  rest  of  us.  So  it's  all  a  matter  of  money, 
of  give  and  take — is  it?  None  of  the  generosity  and 
sentiment  you  used  to  be  full  of?  You've  simply  been 
using  me." 

"It  can  be  put  that  way,"  replied  she.  "And  no 
doubt  you  honestly  see  it  that  way.  But  I've  got  to 
see  my  own  interest  and  my  own  right,  Freddie.  I've 
learned  at  last  that  I  mustn't  trust  to  anyone  else  to 
look  after  them  for  me." 

"Are  you  riding  for  a  fall — Queenie?" 

At  "Queenie"  she  smiled  faintly.  "I'm  riding  the 
way  I  always  have,"  answered  she.  "It  has  carried 
me  down.  But — it  has  brought  me  up  again."  She 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  appealed,  without  yield 
ing.  "And  I'll  ride  that  way  to  the  end — up  or  down," 
said  she.  "I  can't  help  it." 

"Then  you  want  to  break  with  me?"  he  asked — and 
he  began  to  look  dangerous. 

"No,"  replied  she.  "I  want  to  go  on  as  we  are.  .  .  . 
I'll  not  be  interfering  in  your  social  ambitions,  in  any 
way.  Over  here  it'll  help  you  to  have  a  mistress 
who — "  she  saw  her  image  in  the  glass,  threw  him  an 
arch  glance — "who  isn't  altogether  unattractive — won't 
it  ?  And  if  you  found  you  could  go  higher  by  marrying 


SUSAN   LENOX 


some  woman  of  the  grand  world — why,  you'd  be  free 
to  do  it." 

He  had  a  way  of  looking  at  her  that  gave  her — and 
himself — the  sense  of  a  delirious  embrace.  He  looked 
at  her  so,  now.  He  said: 

"You  take  advantage  of  my  being  crazy  about  you 
— damn  you!" 

"Heaven  knows,"  laughed  she,  "I  need  every  advan 
tage  I  can  find." 

He  touched  her — the  lightest  kind  of  touch.  It  car 
ried  the  sense  of  embrace  in  his  look  still  more  giddily 
upward.  "Queenie!"  he  said  softly. 

She  smiled  at  him  through  half  closed  eyes  that  with 
a  gentle  and  shy  frankness  confessed  the  secret  of  his 
attraction  for  her.  There  was,  however,  more  of 
strength  than  of  passion  in  her  face  as  a  whole.  Said 
she: 

"We're  getting  on  well — as  we  are — aren't  we?  I 
can  meet  the  most  amusing  and  interesting  people — 
my  sort  of  people.  You  can  go  with  the  people  and  to 
the  places  you  like — and  you'll  not  be  bound.  If  you 
should  take  a  notion  to  marry  some  woman  with  a  big 
position — you'd  not  have  to  regret  being  tied  to — 
Queenie." 

"But — I  want  you — I  want  you,"  said  he.  "I've  got 
to  have  you." 

"As  long  as  you  like,"  said  she.  "But  on  terms  I 
can  accept — always  on  terms  I  can  accept.  Never  on 
any  others — never !  I  can't  help  it.  I  can  yield  every 
thing  but  that." 

Where  she  was  concerned  he  was  the  primitive  man 
only.  The  higher  his  passion  rose,  the  stronger  became 
his  desire  for  absolute  possession.  When  she  spoke  of 
terms — of  the  limitations  upon  his  possession  of  her — 


SUSAN   LENOX 


she  transformed  his  passion  into  fury.  He  eyed  her 
wickedly,  abruptly  demanded: 

"When  did  you  decide  to  make  this  kick-up?" 

"I  don't  know.  Simply — when  you  asked  me  to 
sign,  I  found  I  couldn't." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  that." 

"It's  the  truth."    She  resumed  brushing  her  hair. 

"Look  at  me!" 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  met  his  gaze. 

"Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  that  young  Jew?" 

"Gourdain?     No." 

"Have  you  a  crazy  notion  that  your  looks'll  get  you 
a  better  husband?  A  big  fortune  or  a  title?" 

"I  haven't  thought  about  a  husband.  Haven't  I 
told  you  I  wish  to  be  free?" 

"But  that  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"It  might,"  said  she  absently. 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.  If  one  is  always  free — one  is  ready 
for — whatever  comes.  Anyhow,  I  must  be  free — no 
matter  what  it  costs." 

"I  see  you're  bent  on  dropping  back  into  the  dirt  I 
picked  you  out  of." 

"Even  that,"  she  said.     "I  must  be  free." 

"Haven't  you  any  desire  to  be  respectable — decent  ?" 

"I  guess  not,"  confessed  she.  "What  is  there  in  that 
direction  for  me?" 

"A  woman  doesn't  stay  young  and  good-looking  long." 

"No."  She  smiled  faintly.  "But  does  she  get  old 
and  ugly  any  slower  for  being  married?" 

He  rose  and  stood  over  her,  looked  smiling  danger 
down  at  her.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  to  meet  his 
eyes  without  constraint.  "You're  trying  to  play  me 
a  trick,"  said  he.  "But  you're  not  going  to  get  away 


SUSAN  LENOX 


with  the  goods.  I'm  astonished  that  you  are  so  rotten 
ungrateful." 

"Because  I'm  not  for  sale?" 

"Queenie  balking  at  selling  herself,"  he  jeered.  "And 
what's  the  least  you  ever  did  sell  for?" 

"A  half-dollar,  I  think.  No — two  drinks  of  whiskey 
one  cold  night.  But  what  I  sold  was  no  more  myself 
than — than  the  coat  I'd  pawned  and  drunk  up  before 
I  did  it." 

The  plain  calm  way  in  which  she  said  this  made  it 
so  terrible  that  he  winced  and  turned  away.  "We 
have  seen  hell — haven't  we?"  he  muttered.  He  turned 
toward  her  with  genuine  passion  of  feeling.  "Susan," 
he  cried,  "don't  be  a  fool.  Let's  push  our  luck,  now 
that  things  are  coming  our  way.  We  need  each  other 
— we  want  to  stay  together — don't  we?" 

"7  want  to  stay.     I'm  happy." 

"Then— let's  put  the  record  straight." 

"Let's  keep  it  straight,"  replied  she  earnestly. 
"Don't  ask  me  to  go  where  I  don't  belong.  For  I  can't, 
Freddie — honestly,  I  can't." 

A  pause.  Then,  "You  will !"  said  he,  not  in  bluster 
ing  fury,  but  in  that  cool  and  smiling  malevolence  which 
had  made  him  the  terror  of  his  associates  from  his  boy 
hood  days  among  the  petty  thieves  and  pickpockets  of 
Grand  Street.  He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 
"You  hear  me.  I  say  you  will." 

She  looked  straight  at  him.  "Not  if  you  kill  me," 
she  said.  She  rose  to  face  him  at  his  own  height.  "I've 
bought  my  freedom  with  my  body  and  with  my  heart 
and  with  my  soul.  It's  all  I've  got.  I  shall  keep  it." 

He  measured  her  strength  with  an  expert  eye.  He 
knew  that  he  was  beaten.  He  laughed  lightly  and  went 
into  his  dressing-room. 


XXII 

THEY  met  the  next  morning  with  no  sign  in  the 
manner  of  either  that  there  had  been  a  drawn 
battle,  that  there  was  an  armed  truce.  She 
knew  that  he,  like  herself,  was  thinking  of  nothing  else. 
But  until  he  had  devised  some  way  of  certainly  con 
quering  her  he  would  wait,  and  watch,  and  pretend  that 
he  was  satisfied  with  matters  as  they  were.  The  longer 
she  reflected  the  less  uneasy  she  became — as  to  immedi 
ate  danger.  In  Paris  the  methods  of  violence  he  might 
have  been  tempted  to  try  in  New  York  were  out  of  the 
question.  What  remained?  He  must  realize  that 
threats  to  expose  her  would  be  futile;  also,  he  must 
feel  vulnerable,  himself,  to  that  kind  of  attack — a 
feeling  that  would  act  as  a  restraint,  even  though  he 
might  appreciate  that  she  was  the  sort  of  person  who 
could  not  in  any  circumstances  resort  to  it.  He  had 
not  upon  her  a  single  one  of  the  holds  a  husband  has 
upon  a  wife.  True,  he  could  break  with  her.  But  she 
must  appreciate  how  easy  it  would  now  be  for  her  in 
this  capital  of  the  idle  rich  to  find  some  other  man 
glad  to  "protect"  a  woman  so  expert  at  gratifying 
man's  vanity  of  being  known  as  the  proprietor  of  a 
beautiful  and  fashionable  woman.  She  had  discovered 
how,  in  the  aristocracy  of  European  wealth,  an  ad 
mired  mistress  was  as  much  a  necessary  part  of  the 
grandeur  of  great  nobles,  great  financiers,  great  manu 
facturers,  or  merchants,  as  wife,  as  heir,  as  palace,  as 
equipage,  as  chef,  as  train  of  secretaries  and  courtiers. 
She  knew  how  deeply  it  would  cut,  to  find  himself  with- 

425 


SUSAN   LENOX 


out  his  show  piece  that  made  him  the  envied  of  men 
and  the  desired  of  women.  Also,  she  knew  that  she  had 
an  even  stronger  hold  upon  him — that  she  appealed  to 
him  as  no  other  woman  ever  had,  that  she  had  become 
for  him  a  tenacious  habit.  She  was  not  afraid  that 
he  would  break  with  her.  But  she  could  not  feel  secure ; 
in  former  days  she  had  seen  too  far  into  the  mazes  of 
that  Italian  mind  of  his,  she  knew  too  well  how  patient, 
how  relentless,  how  unforgetting  he  was.  She  would 
have  taken  murder  into  account  as  more  than  a  pos 
sibility  but  for  his  intense  and  intelligent  selfishness ; 
he  would  not  risk  his  life  or  his  liberty;  he  would  not 
deprive  himself  of  his  keenest  pleasure.  He  was  re 
sourceful  ;  but  in  the  circumstances  what  resources  were 
there  for  him  to  draw  upon? 

When  he  began  to  press  upon  her  more  money  than 
ever,  and  to  buy  her  costly  jewelry,  she  felt  still  fur 
ther  reassured.  Evidently  he  had  been  unable  to  think 
out  any  practicable  scheme ;  evidently  he  was,  for  the 
time,  taking  the  course  of  appeal  to  her  generous  in 
stincts,  of  making  her  more  and  more  dependent  upon 
his  liberality. 

Well — was  he  not  right?  Love  might  fail;  passion 
might  wane;  conscience,  aiding  self-interest  with  its 
usual  servility,  might  overcome  the  instincts  of  grati 
tude.  But  what  power  could  overcome  the  loyalty  rest 
ing  upon  money  interest?  No  power  but  that  of  a 
longer  purse  than  his.  As  she  was  not  in  the  mood  to 
make  pretenses  about  herself  to  herself,  she  smiled  at 
this  cynical  self-measuring.  "But  I  shan't  despise 
myself  for  being  so  material,"  said  she  to  herself,  "until 
I  find  a  genuine  case  of  a  woman,  respectable  or  other 
wise,  who  has  known  poverty  and  escaped  from  it,  and 
has  then  voluntarily  given  up  wealth  to  go  back  to  it. 

426 


SUSAN   LENOX 


I  should  not  stay  on  with  him  if  he  were  distasteful  to 
me.  And  that's  more  than  most  women  can  honestly 
say.  Perhaps  even  I  should  not  stay  on  if  it  were  not 
for  a  silly,  weak  feeling  of  obligation — but  I  can't  be 
sure  of  that."  She  had  seen  too  much  of  men  and 
women  preening  upon  noble  disinterested  motives  when 
in  fact  their  real  motives  were  the  most  calculatingly 
selfish;  she  preferred  doing  herself  less  than  justice 
rather  than  more. 

She  had  fifty-five  thousand  francs  on  deposit  at  Mun- 
roe's — all  her  very  own.  She  had  almost  two  hundred 
thousand  francs'  worth  of  jewels,  which  she  would  be 
justified  in  keeping — at  least,  she  hoped  she  would 
think  so — should  there  come  a  break  with  Freddie. 
Yet  in  spite  of  this  substantial  prosperity — or  was  it 
because  of  this  prosperity? — she  abruptly  began  again 
to  be  haunted  by  the  old  visions,  by  warnings  of  the 
dangers  that  beset  any  human  being  who  has  not  that 
paying  trade  or  profession  which  makes  him  or  her 
independent — gives  him  or  her  the  only  unassailable 
independence. 

The  end  with  Freddie  might  be  far  away.  But  end, 
she  saw,  there  would  be — the  day  when  he  would  some 
how  get  her  in  his  power  and  so  would  drive  her  to 
leave  him.  For  she  could  not  again  become  a  slave. 
Extreme  youth,  utter  inexperience,  no  knowledge  of 
real  freedom — these  had  enabled  her  to  endure  in  for 
mer  days.  But  she  was  wholly  different  now.  She 
could  not  sink  back.  Steadily  she  was  growing  less 
and  less  able  to  take  orders  from  anyone.  This  full- 
grown  passion  for  freedom,  this  intolerance  of  the  least 
restraint — how  dangerous,  if  she  should  find  herself  in 
a  position  where  she  would  have  to  put  up  with  the 
caprices  of  some  man  or  drop  down  and  down! 

427 


SUSAN   LENOX 


What  real,  secure  support  had  she?  None.  Her 
building  was  without  solid  foundations.  Her  struggle 
with  Freddie  was  a  revelation  and  a  warning.  There 
were  days  when,  driving  about  in  her  luxurious  car, 
she  could  do  nothing  but  search  among  the  crowds  in 
the  streets  for  the  lonely  old  women  in  rags,  picking 
and  peering  along  the  refuse  of  the  cafes — weazened, 
warped  figures  swathed  in  rags,  creeping  along,  mum 
bling  to  themselves,  lips  folded  in  and  in  over  toothless 
gums. 

One  day  Brent  saw  again  the  look  she  often  could 
not  keep  from  her  face  when  that  vision  of  the  dance 
hall  in  the  slums  was  horrifying  her.  He  said  im 
pulsively  : 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me— what  is  it,  Susan?" 

It  was  the  first  and  the  last  time  he  ever  called  her 
by  her  only  personal  name.  He  flushed  deeply.  To 
cover  his  confusion — and  her  own — she  said  in  her  most 
frivolous  way: 

"I  was  thinking  that  if  I  am  ever  rich  I  shall  have 
more  pairs  of  shoes  and  stockings  and  take  care  of 
more  orphans  than  anyone  else  in  the  world." 

"A  purpose !  At  last  a  purpose !"  laughed  he.  "Now 
you  will  go  to  work." 

Through  Gourdain  she  got  a  French  teacher — and 
her  first  woman  friend. 

The  young  widow  he  recommended,  a  Madame  Clelie 
Deliere,  was  the  most  attractive  woman  she  had  ever 
known.  She  had  all  the  best  French  characteristics — 
a  good  heart,  a  lively  mind,  was  imaginative  yet  sensible, 
had  good  taste  in  all  things.  Like  most  of  the  at 
tractive  French  women,  she  was  not  beautiful,  but  had 
that  which  is  of  far  greater  importance — charm.  She 
knew  not  a  word  of  English,  and  it  was  perhaps  Susan's 


SUSAN  LENOX 


chief  incentive  toward  working  hard  at  French  that 
she  could  not  really  be  friends  with  this  fascinating 
person  until  she  learned  to  speak  her  language.  Palmer 
— partly  by  nature,  partly  through  early  experience  in 
the  polyglot  tenement  district  of  New  York — had  more 
aptitude  for  language  than  had  Susan.  But  he  had 
been  lazy  about  acquiring  French  in  a  city  where 
English  is  spoken  almost  universally.  With  the  coming 
of  young  Madame  Deliere  to  live  in  the  apartment,  he 
became  interested. 

It  was  not  a  month  after  her  coming  when  you  might 
have  seen  at  one  of  the  fashionable  gay  restaurants 
any  evening  a  party  of  four — Gourdain  was  the  fourth 
— talking  French  almost  volubly.  Palmer's  accent  was 
better  than  Susan's.  She  could  not — and  felt  she  never 
could — get  the  accent  of  the  trans-Alleghany  region 
out  of  her  voice — and  so  long  as  that  remained  she 
would  not  speak  good  French.  "But  don't  let  that 
trouble  you,"  said  Clelie.  "Your  voice  is  your  greatest 
charm.  It  is  so  honest  and  so  human.  Of  the  Ameri 
cans  I  have  met,  I  have  liked  only  those  with  that  same 
tone  in  their  voices." 

"But  /  haven't  that  accent,"  said  Freddie  with  rail 
lery. 

Madame  Clelie  laughed.  "No — and  I  do  not  like 
you,"  retorted  she.  "No  one  ever  did.  You  do  not 
wish  to  be  liked.  You  wish  to  be  feared."  Her  lively 
brown  eyes  sparkled  and  the  big  white  teeth  in  her 
generous  mouth  glistened.  "You  wish  to  be  feared — 
and  you  are  feared,  Monsieur  Freddie." 

"It  takes  a  clever  woman  to  know  how  to  flatter  with 
the  truth,"  said  he.  "Everybody  always  has  been 
afraid  of  me — and  is — except,  of  course,  my  wife." 

He  was  always  talking  of  "my  wife"  now.     The  sub- 


SUSAN   LENOX 


ject  so  completely  possessed  his  mind  that  he  aired  it 
unconsciously.  When  she  was  not  around  he  boasted 
of  "my  wife's"  skill  in  the  art  of  dress,  of  "my  wife's" 
taste,  of  "my  wife's"  shrewdness  in  getting  her  money's 
worth.  When  she  was  there,  he  was  using  the  favorite 
phrase — "my  wife"  this — "my  wife"  that — "my  wife" 
the  other — until  it  so  got  on  her  nerves  that  she  began 
to  wait  for  it  and  to  wince  whenever  it  came — never  a 
wait  of  many  minutes.  At  first  she  thought  he  was 
doing  this  deliberately,  either  to  annoy  her  or  in  pur 
suance  of  some  secret  deep  design.  But  she  soon  saw 
that  he  was  not  aware  of  his  inability  to  keep  off  the 
subject  or  of  his  obsession  for  that  phrase  represent 
ing  the  thing  he  was  intensely  wishing  and  willing — 
"chiefly,"  she  thought,  "because  it  is  something  he 
cannot  have."  She  was  amazed  at  his  display  of  such 
a  weakness.  It  gave  her  the  chance  to  learn  an  im 
portant  truth  about  human  nature — that  self-indulg 
ence  soon  destroys  the  strongest  nature — and  she  was 
witness  to  how  rapidly  an  inflexible  will  disintegrates  if 
incessantly  applied  to  an  impossibility.  When  a  strong 
arrogant  man,  unbalanced  by  long  and  successful  self- 
indulgence,  hurls  himself  at  an  obstruction,  either  the 
obstruction  yields  or  the  man  is  destroyed. 

One  morning  early  in  February,  as  she  was  descend 
ing  from  her  auto  in  front  of  the  apartment  house,  she 
saw  Brent  in  the  doorway.  Never  had  he  looked  so 
young  or  so  well.  His  color  was  fine,  his  face  had 
become  almost  boyish ;  upon  his  skin  and  in  his  eyes  was 
that  gloss  of  perfect  health  which  until  these  latter 
days  of  scientific  hygiene  was  rarely  seen  after  twenty- 
five  in  a  woman  or  after  thirty  in  a  man.  She  gathered 
in  all,  to  the  smallest  detail — such  as  the  color  of  his 

430 


SUSAN   LENOX 


shirt — with  a  single  quick  glance.  She  knew  that  he 
had  seen  her  before  she  saw  him — that  he  had  been 
observing  her.  Her  happiest  friendliest  smile  made  her 
small  face  bewitching  as  she  advanced  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"When  did  you  come?"  she  asked. 

"About  an  hour  ago." 

"From  the  Riviera?" 

"No,  indeed.  From  St.  Moritz — and  skating  and 
skiing  and  tobogganing.  I  rather  hoped  I  looked  it. 
Doing  those  things  in  that  air — it's  being  born 
again." 

"I  felt  well  till  I  saw  you,"  said  she.  "Now  I  feel 
dingy  and  half  sick." 

He  laughed,  his  glance  sweeping  her  from  hat  to 
boots.  Certainly  his  eyes  could  not  have  found  a  more 
entrancing  sight.  She  was  wearing  a  beautiful  dress 
of  golden  brown  cloth,  sable  hat,  short  coat  and  muff, 
brown  suede  boots  laced  high  upon  her  long  slender 
calves.  And  when  she  had  descended  from  the  perfect 
little  limousine  made  to  order  for  her,  he  had  seen  a 
ravishing  flutter  of  lingerie  of  pale  violet  silk.  The 
sharp  air  had  brought  no  color  to  her  cheeks  to  inter 
fere  with  the  abrupt  and  fascinating  contrast  of  their 
pallor  with  the  long  crimson  bow  of  her  mouth.  But 
her  skin  seemed  transparent  and  had  the  clearness  of 
health  itself.  Everything  about  her,  every  least  detail, 
was  of  Parisian  perfection. 

"Probably  there  are  not  in  the  world,"  said  he,  "so 
many  as  a  dozen  women  so  well  put  together  as  you 
are.  No,  not  half  a  dozen.  Few  women  carry  the  art 
of  dress  to  the  point  of  genius." 

"I  see  they  had  only  frumps  at  St.  Moritz  this  sea 
son,"  laughed  she. 

431 


SUSAN   LENOX 


But  he  would  not  be  turned  aside.  "Most  of  the 
well  dressed  women  stop  short  with  being  simply  frivo 
lous  in  spending  so  much  time  at  less  than  perfection — 
like  the  army  of  poets  who  write  pretty  good  verse,  or 
the  swarm  of  singers  who  sing  pretty  well.  I've  heard 
of  you  many  times  this  winter.  You  are  the  talk  of 
Paris." 

She  laughed  with  frank  delight.  It  was  indeed  a 
pleasure  to  discover  that  her  pains  had  not  been  in 
vain. 

"It  is  always  the  outsider  who  comes  to  the  great  city 
to  show  it  its  own  resources,"  he  went  on.  "I  knew 
you  were  going  to  do  this.  Still  happy?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

But  he  had  taken  her  by  surprise.  A  faint  shadow 
flitted  across  her  face.  "Not  so  happy,  I  see." 

"You  see  too  much.  Won't  you  lunch  with  us? 
We'll  have  it  in  about  half  an  hour." 

He  accepted  promptly  and  they  went  up  together. 
His  glance  traveled  round  the  drawing-room;  and  she 
knew  he  had  noted  all  the  changes  she  had  made  on 
better  acquaintance  with  her  surroundings  and  wider 
knowledge  of  interior  furnishing.  She  saw  that  he  ap 
proved,  and  it  increased  her  good  humor.  "Are  you 
hurrying  through  Paris  on  your  way  to  somewhere 
else?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  stop  here — I  think — until  I  sail  for  America." 

"And  that  wiU  be  soon?" 

"Perhaps  not  until  July.  I  have  no  plans.  I've 
finished  a  play  a  woman  suggested  to  me  some  time  ago. 
And  I'm  waiting." 

A  gleam  of  understanding  came  into  her  eyes.  There 
was  controlled  interest  in  her  voice  as  she  inquired: 

"When  is  it  to  be  produced?" 
432 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"When  the  woman  who  suggested  it  is  ready  to  act 
in  it." 

"Do  I  by  any  chance  know  her?" 

"You  used  to  know  her.     You  will  know  her  again." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  a  pensive  smile  hovering 
about  her  eyes  and  lips.  "No — not  again.  I  have — 
changed." 

"We  do  not  change,"  said  he.  "We  move,  but  we 
do  not  change.  You  are  the  same  character  you  were 
when  you  came  into  the  world.  And  what  you  were 
then,  that  you  will  be  when  the  curtain  falls  on  the 
climax  of  your  last  act.  Your  circumstances  will 
change — and  your  clothes — and  your  face,  hair,  figure 
— but  not  you." 

"Do  you  believe  that?" 

"I  know  it." 

She  nodded  slowly,  the  violet-gray  eyes  pensive. 
"Birds  in  the  strong  wind — that's  what  we  are.  Driven 
this  way  or  that — or  quite  beaten  down.  But  the  wind 
doesn't  change  sparrow  to  eagle — or  eagle  to  gull — 
does  it?" 

She  had  removed  her  coat  and  was  seated  on  an 
oval  lounge  gazing  into  the  open  fire.  He  was  standing 
before  it,  looking  taller  and  stronger  than  ever,  in  a 
gray  lounging  suit.  A  cigarette  depended  loosely  from 
the  corner  of  his  mouth.  He  said  abruptly : 

"How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  acting?" 

She  glanced  in  surprise. 

"Gourdain,"  Brent  explained.  "He  had  to  talk  to 
somebody  about  how  wonderful  you  are.  So  he  took 
to  writing  me — two  huge  letters  a  week — all  about 
you." 

"I'm  fond  of  him.     And  he's  fond  of  Clelie.     She's 

my " 

433 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"I  know  all,"  he  interrupted.  "The  tie  between 
them  is  their  fondness  for  you.  Tell  me  about  the 
acting." 

"Oh — Clelie  and  I  have  been  going  to  the  theater 
every  few  days — to  help  me  with  French.  She  is  mad 
about  acting,  and  there's  nothing  I  like  better." 

"Also,  you  simply  have  to  have  occupation." 

She  nodded.  "I  wasn't  brought  up  to  fit  me  for  an 
idler.  When  I  was  a  child  I  was  taught  to  keep  busy — 
not  at  nothing,  but  at  something.  Freddie's  a  lot  bet 
ter  at  it  than  I." 

"Naturally,"  said  Brent.  "You  had  a  home,  with 
order  and  a  system — an  old-fashioned  American  home. 
He— well,  he  hadn't." 

"Clelie  and  I  go  at  our  make-believe  acting  quite 
seriously.  We  have  to — if  we're  to  fool  ourselves  that 
it's  an  occupation." 

"Why  this  anxiety  to  prove  to  me  that  you're  not 
really  serious?" 

Susan  laughed  mockingly  for  answer,  and  went  on: 

"You  should  see  us  do  the  two  wives  in  'L'Enigme' — 
or  mother  and  daughter  in  that  diary  scene  in  'L'Autre 
Danger'!" 

"I  must.  .  .  .  When  are  you  going  to  resume  your 
career?" 

She  rose,  strolled  toward  an  open  door  at  one  end 
of  the  salon,  closed  it — strolled  toward  the  door  into 
the  hall,  glanced  out,  returned  without  having  closed  it. 
She  then  said : 

"Could  I  study  here  in  Paris?" 

Triumph  gleamed  in  his  eyes.  "Yes.  Boudrin — a 
splendid  teacher — speaks  English.  He — and  I — can 
teach  you." 

"Tell  me  what  I'd  have  to  do." 
434 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"We  would  coach  you  for  a  small  part  in  some  play 
that's  to  be  produced  here." 

"In  French?" 

"I'll  have  an  American  girl  written  into  a  farce. 
Enough  to  get  you  used  to  the  stage — to  give  you 
practice  in  what  he'll  teach  you — the  trade  side  of 
the  art." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  we  shall  spend  the  summer  learning  your 
part  in  my  play.  Two  or  three  weeks  of  company 
rehearsals  in  New  York  in  September.  In  October — 
your  name  out  over  the  Long  Acre  Theater  in  letters 
of  fire." 

"Could  that  be  done?" 

"Even  if  you  had  little  talent,  less  intelligence,  and 
no  experience.  Properly  taught,  the  trade  part  of 
every  art  is  easy.  Teachers  make  it  hard  partly  be 
cause  they're  dull,  chiefly  because  there'd  be  small 
money  for  them  if  they  taught  quickly,  and  only  the 
essentials.  No,  journeyman  acting's  no  harder  to  learn 
than  bricklaying  or  carpentering.  And  in  America — 
everywhere  in  the  world  but  a  few  theaters  in  Paris  and 
Vienna — there  is  nothing  seen  but  journeyman  acting. 
The  art  is  in  its  infancy  as  an  art.  It  even  has  not  yet 
been  emancipated  from  the  swaddling  clothes  of  decla 
mation.  Yes,  you  can  do  well  by  the  autumn.  And  if 
you  develop  what  I  think  you  have  in  you,  you  can 
leap  with  one  bound  into  fame.  In  America  or  England, 
mind  you — because  there  the  acting  is  all  poor  to 
'pretty  good'." 

"You  are  sure  it  could  be  done?  No — I  don't  mean 
that.  I  mean,  is  there  really  a  chance — any  chance— 
for  me  to  make  my  own  living?  A  real  living?" 

"I  guarantee,"  said  Brent. 
435 


SUSAN   LENOX 


She  changed  from  seriousness  to  a  mocking  kind  of 
gayety — that  is,  to  a  seriousness  so  profound  that  she 
would  not  show  it.  And  she  said: 

"You  see  I  simply  must  banish  my  old  women — and 
that  hunchback  and  his  piano.  They  get  on  my 
nerves." 

He  smiled  humorously  at  her.  But  behind  the  smile 
his  gaze — grave,  sympathetic — pierced  into  her  soul, 
seeking  the  meaning  he  knew  she  would  never  put  into 
words. 

At  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall  she  said: 

"We'll  talk  of  this  again." 

At  lunch  that  day  she,  for  the  first  time  in  many 
a  week,  listened  without  irritation  while  Freddie  poured 
forth  his  unending  praise  of  "my  wife."  As  Brent 
knew  them  intimately,  Freddie  felt  free  to  expatiate 
upon  all  the  details  of  domestic  economy  that  chanced 
to  be  his  theme,  with  the  exquisite  lunch  as  a  text.  He 
told  Brent  how  Susan  had  made  a  study  of  that  branch 
of  the  art  of  living;  how  she  had  explored  the  un 
rivaled  Parisian  markets  and  groceries  and  shops  that 
dealt  in  specialties ;  how  she  had  developed  their  break 
fasts,  dinners,  and  lunches  to  works  of  art.  It  is 
impossible  for  anyone,  however  stupid,  to  stop  long  in 
Paris  without  beginning  to  idealize  the  material  side 
of  life — for  the  French,  who  build  solidly,  first  idealize 
food,  clothing,  and  shelter,  before  going  on  to  take 
up  the  higher  side  of  life — as  a  sane  man  builds  his 
foundation  before  his  first  story,  and  so  on,  putting 
the  observation  tower  on  last  of  all,  instead  of  making 
an  ass  of  himself  trying  to  hang  his  tower  to  the  stars. 
Our  idealization  goes  forward  haltingly  and  hypocrit 
ically  because  we  try  to  build  from  the  stars  down, 
instead  of  from  the  ground  up.  The  place  to  seek  the 

436 


SUSAN   LENOX 


ideal  is  in  the  homely,  the  commonplace,  and  the  neces 
sary.  An  ideal  that  does  not  spring  deep-rooted  from 
the  soil  of  practical  life  may  be  a  topic  for  a  sermon  or 
a  novel  or  for  idle  conversation  among  silly  and  pre 
tentious  people.  But  what  use  has  it  in  a  world  that 
must  live,  and  must  be  taught  to  live? 

Freddie  was  unaware  that  he  was  describing  a  fur 
ther  development  of  Susan — a  course  she  was  taking 
in  the  university  of  experience — she  who  had  passed 
through  its  common  school,  its  high  school,  its  college. 
To  him  her  clever  housekeeping  offered  simply  another 
instance  of  her  cleverness  in  general.  His  discourse 
was  in  bad  taste.  But  its  bad  taste  was  tolerable  be 
cause  he  was  interesting — food,  like  sex,  being  one  of 
those  universal  subjects  that  command  and  hold  the 
attention  of  all  mankind.  He  rose  to  no  mean  height 
of  eloquence  in  describing  their  dinner  of  the  evening 
before — the  game  soup  that  brought  to  him  visions  of 
a  hunting  excursion  he  had  once  made  into  the  wilds  of 
Canada;  the  way  the  barbue  was  cooked  and  served; 
the  incredible  duck — and  the  salad !  Clelie  interrupted 
to  describe  that  salad  as  like  a  breath  of  summer  air 
from  fields  and  limpid  brooks.  He  declared  that  the 
cheese — which  Susan  had  found  in  a  shop  in  the  Marche 
St.  Honore — was  more  wonderful  than  the  most  won 
derful  petit  Suisse.  "And  the  coffee !"  he  exclaimed. 
"But  you'll  see  in  a  few  minutes.  We  have  coffee 
here." 

"Quette  histoire!"  exclaimed  Brent,  when  Freddie  had 
concluded.  And  he  looked  at  Susan  with  the  ironic, 
quizzical  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

She  colored.  "I  am  learning  to  live,"  said  she. 
"That's  what  we're  on  earth  for— isn't  it?" 

"To  learn  to  live — and  then,  to  live,"  replied  he. 
437 


SUSAN  LENOX 


She  laughed.     "Ah,  that  comes  a  little  later." 

"Not  much  later,"  rejoined  he,  "or  there's  no  time 
left  for  it." 

It  was  Freddie  who,  after  lunch,  urged  Susan  and 
Clelie  to  "show  Brent  what  you  can  do  at  acting." 

"Yes — by  all  means,"  said  Brent  with  enthusiasm. 

And  they  gave — in  one  end  of  the  salon  which  was 
well  suited  for  it — the  scene  between  mother  and  daugh 
ter  over  the  stolen  diary,  in  "L'Autre  Danger."  Brent 
said  little  when  they  finished,  so  little  that  Palmer  was 
visibly  annoyed.  But  Susan,  who  was  acquainted  with 
his  modes  of  expression,  felt  a  deep  glow  of  satisfaction. 
She  had  no  delusions  about  her  attempts ;  she  under 
stood  perfectly  that  they  were  simply  crude  attempts. 
She  knew  she  had  done  well — for  her — and  she  knew  he 
appreciated  her  improvement. 

"That  would  have  gone  fine — with  costumes  and 
scenery — eh?"  demanded  Freddie  of  Brent. 

"Yes,"  said  Brent  absently.     "Yes— that  is— Yes." 

Freddie  was  dissatisfied  with  this  lack  of  enthusiasm. 
He  went  on  insistently: 

"I  think  she  ought  to  go  on  the  stage — she  and 
Madame  Clelie,  too." 

"Yes,"  said  Brent,  between  inquiry  and  reflection. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  think  she  ought,"  replied  Brent.  "I  think 
she  must'9  He  turned  to  Susan.  "Would  you  like 
it?" 

Susan  hesitated.  Freddie  said — rather  lamely,  "Of 
course  she  would.  For  my  part,  I  wish  she  would." 

"Then  I  will,"  said  Susan  quietly. 

Palmer  looked  astounded.  He  had  not  dreamed  she 
would  assent.  He  knew  her  tones — knew  that  the  par 
ticular  tone  meant  finality.  "You're  joking,"  cried  he, 

438 


SUSAN   LENOX 


with  an  uneasy  laugh.  "Why,  you  wouldn't  stand  the 
work  for  a  week.  It's  hard  work — isn't  it,  Brent?" 

"About  the  hardest,"  said  Brent.  "And  she's  got 
practically  everything  still  to  learn." 

"Shall  we  try,  Clelie?"  said  Susan. 

Young  Madame  Deliere  was  pale  with  eagerness. 
"Ah — but  that  would  be  worth  while!"  cried  she. 

"Then  it's  settled,"  said  Susan.  To  Brent:  "We'll 
make  the  arrangements  at  once — today." 

Freddie  was  looking  at  her  with  a  dazed  expression. 
His  glance  presently  drifted  from  her  face  to  the  fire, 
to  rest  there  thoughtfully  as  he  smoked  his  cigar.  He 
took  no  part  in  the  conversation  that  followed.  Pres 
ently  he  left  the  room  without  excusing  himself.  When 
Clelie  seated  herself  at  the  piano  to  wander  vaguely 
from  one  piece  of  music  to  another,  Brent  joined  Susan 
at  the  fire  and  said  in  English: 

"Palmer  is  furious." 

"I  saw,"  said  she. 

"I  am  afraid.     For — I  know  him." 

She  looked  calmly  at  him.     "But  I  am  not." 

"Then  you  do  not  know  him." 

The  strangest  smile  flitted  across  her  face. 

After  a  pause  Brent  said:  "Are  you  married  to 
him?" 

Again  the  calm  steady  look.  Then:  "That  is  none 
of  your  business." 

"I  thought  you  were  not,"  said  Brent,  as  if  she  had 
answered  his  question  with  a  clear  negative.  He  added, 
"You  know  I'd  not  have  asked  if  it  had  been  'none  of 
my  business.'  " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  you  had  been  his  wife,  I  could  not  have  gone  on. 
I've  all  the  reverence  for  a  home  of  the  man  who  has 

439 


SUSAN   LENOX 


never  had  one.  I'd  not  take  part  in  a  home-breaking. 
But — since  you  are  free " 

"I  shall  never  be  anything  else  but  free.  It's  because 
I  wish  to  make  sure  of  my  freedom  that  I'm  going  into 
this." 

Palmer  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

That  night  the  four  and  Gourdain  dined  together, 
went  to  the  theater  and  afterward  to  supper  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris.  Gourdain  and  young  Madame  Deliere 
formed  an  interesting,  unusually  attractive  exhibit  of 
the  parasitism  that  is  as  inevitable  to  the  rich  as  fleas 
to  a  dog.  Gourdain  was  a  superior  man,  Clelie  a  su 
perior  woman.  There  was  nothing  of  the  sycophant,  or 
even  of  the  courtier,  about  either.  Yet  they  already  had 
in  their  faces  that  subtle  indication  of  the  dependent 
that  is  found  in  all  professional  people  who  habitually 
work  for  and  associate  with  the  rich  only.  They  had 
no  sense  of  dependence ;  they  were  not  dependents,  for 
they  gave  more  than  value  received.  Yet  so  corrupting 
is  the  atmosphere  about  rich  people  that  Gourdain, 
who  had  other  rich  clients,  no  less  than  Clelie  who  got 
her  whole  living  from  Palmer,  was  at  a  glance  in  the 
flea  class  and  not  in  the  dog  class.  Brent  looked  for 
signs  of  the  same  thing  in  Susan's  face.  The  signs 
should  have  been  there ;  but  they  were  not.  "Not  yet," 
thought  he.  "And  never  will  be  now." 

Palmer's  abstraction  and  constraint  were  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  gayety  of  the  others.  Susan  drank 
almost  nothing.  Her  spirits  were  soaring  so  high  that 
she  did  not  dare  stimulate  them  with  champagne.  The 
Cafe  de  Paris  is  one  of  the  places  where  the  respectable 
go  to  watch  les  autres  and  to  catch  a  real  gayety  by 
contagion  of  a  gayety  that  is  mechanical  and  alto- 

440 


SUSAN  LENOX 


gether  as  unreal  as  play-acting.  There  is  something 
fantastic  about  the  official  temples  of  Venus ;  the  pleas 
ure-makers  are  so  serious  under  their  masks  and  the 
pleasure-getters  so  quaintly  dazzled  and  deluded.  That 
is,  Venus's  temples  are  like  those  of  so  many  other 
religions  in  reverence  among  men — disbelief  and  solemn 
humbuggery  at  the  altar;  belief  that  would  rather  die 
than  be  undeceived,  in  the  pews.  Palmer  scarcely  took 
his  eyes  from  Susan's  face.  It  amused  and  pleased  her 
to  see  how  uneasy  this  made  Brent — and  how  her  own 
laughter  and  jests  aggravated  his  uneasiness  to  the 
point  where  he  was  almost  showing  it.  She  glanced 
round  that  brilliant  room  filled  with  men  and  women, 
each  of  them  carrying  underneath  the  placidity  of  stiff 
evening  shirt  or  the  scantiness  of  audacious  evening 
gown  the  most  fascinating  emotions  and  secrets — love 
and  hate  and  jealousy,  cold  and  monstrous  habits  and 
desires,  ruin  impending  or  stealthily  advancing,  for 
tune  giddying  to  a  gorgeous  climax,  disease  and  shame 
and  fear — yet  only  signs  of  love  and  laughter  and  light 
ness  of  heart  visible.  And  she  wondered  whether  at  any 
other  table  there  was  gathered  so  curious  an  assem 
blage  of  pasts  and  presents  and  futures  as  at  the  one 
over  which  Freddie  Palmer  was  presiding  somberly. 
.  .  .  Then  her  thoughts  took  another  turn.  She  fell 
to  noting  how  each  man  was  accompanied  by  a  woman 
— a  gorgeously  dressed  woman,  a  woman  revealing, 
proclaiming,  in  every  line,  in  every  movement,  that  she 
was  thus  elaborately  and  beautifully  toiletted  to  please 
man,  to  appeal  to  his  senses,  to  gain  his  gracious  ap 
proval.  It  was  the  world  in  miniature ;  it  was  an  illus 
tration  of  the  position  of  woman — of  her  own  position. 
Favorite ;  pet.  Not  the  equal  of  man,  but  an  appetizer, 
a  dessert.  She  glanced  at  herself  in  the  glass,  mocked 

441 


SUSAN   LENOX 


her  own  radiant  beauty  of  face  and  form  and  dress. 
Not  really  a  full  human  being;  merely  a  decoration. 
No  more;  and  no  worse  off  than  most  of  the  women 
everywhere,  the  favorites  licensed  or  unlicensed  of  law 
and  religion.  But  just  as  badly  off,  and  just  as  in 
secure.  Free!  No  rest,  no  full  breath  until  freedom 
had  been  won !  At  any  cost,  by  straight  way  or  devious 
— free ! 

"Let's  go  home,"  said  she  abruptly.  "I've  had 
enough  of  this." 

She  was  in  a  dressing  gown,  all  ready  for  bed  and 
reading,  when  Palmer  came  into  her  sitting-room.  She 
was  smoking,  her  gaze  upon  her  book.  Her  thick  dark 
hair  was  braided  close  to  her  small  head.  There  was 
delicate  lace  on  her  nightgown,  showing  above  the 
wadded  satin  collar  of  the  dressing  gown.  He  dropped 
heavily  into  a  chair. 

If  anyone  had  told  me  a  year  ago  that  a  skirt 
could  make  a  damn  fool  of  me,"  said  he  bitterly, 
"I'd  have  laughed  in  his  face.  Yet — here  I  am! 
How  nicely  I  did  drop  into  your  trap  today — about 
the  acting!" 

"Trap?" 

"Oh,  I  admit  I  built  and  baited  and  set  it,  myself— 
ass  that  I  was!     But  it  was  your  trap — yours   and 
Brent's,  all  the  same.  ...  A  skirt — and  not  a  clean 
one,  at  that." 

She  lowered  the  book  to  her  lap,  took  the  cigarette 
from  between  her  lips,  looked  at  him.  "Why  not  be 
reasonable,  Freddie?"  said  she  calmly.  Language  had 
long  since  lost  its  power  to  impress  her.  "Why  irritate 
yourself  and  annoy  me  simply  because  I  won't  let  you 
tyrannize  over  me?  You  know  you  can't  treat  me  as 

442 


SUSAN   LENOX 


if  I  were  your  property.  I'm  not  your  wife,  and  I  don't 
have  to  be  your  mistress." 

"Getting  ready  to  break  with  me — eh?" 

"If  I  wished  to  go,  I'd  tell  you — and  go." 

"You'd  give  me  the  shake,  would  you? — without  the 
slightest  regard  for  all  I've  done  for  you!" 

She  refused  to  argue  that  again.  "I  hope  I've  out 
grown  doing  weak  gentle  things  through  cowardice  and 
pretending  it's  through  goodness  of  heart." 

"You've  gotten  hard — like  stone." 

"Like  you — somewhat."  And  after  a  moment  she 
added,  "Anything  that's  strong  is  hard — isn't  it?  Can 
a  man  or  a  woman  get  anywhere  without  being  able  to 
be  what  you  call  'hard'  and  what  I  call  'strong'?" 

"Where  do  you  want  to  get?"  demanded  he. 

She  disregarded  his  question,  to  finish  saying  what 
was  in  her  mind — what  she  was  saying  rather  to  give 
herself  a  clear  look  at  her  own  thoughts  and  purposes 
than  to  enlighten  him  about  them.  "I'm  not  a  sheltered 
woman,"  pursued  she.  "I've  got  no  one  to  save  me 
from  the  consequences  of  doing  nice,  sweet,  womanly 
things." 

"You've  got  me,"  said  he  angrily. 

"But  why  lean  if  I'm  strong  enough  to  stand  alone? 
Why  weaken  myself  just  to  gratify  your  mania  for 
owning  and  bossing?  But  let  me  finish  what  I  was 
saying.  I  never  got  any  quarter  because  I  was  a 
woman.  No  woman  does,  as  a  matter  of  fact;  and  in 
the  end,  the  more  she  uses  her  sex  to  help  her  shirk,  the 
worse  her  punishment  is.  But  in  my  case 

"I  was  brought  up  to  play  the  weak  female,  to  use 
my  sex  as  my  shield.  And  that  was  taken  from  me 
and — I  needn't  tell  you  how  I  was  taught  to  give  and 
take  like  a  man — no,  not  like  a  man — for  no  man  ever 

443 


SUSAN   LENOX 


has  to  endure  what  a  woman  goes  through  if  she  is 
thrown  on  the  world.  Still,  I'm  not  whining.  Now 
that  it's  all  over  I'm  the  better  for  what  I've  been 
through.  I've  learned  to  use  all  a  man's  weapons  and 
in  addition  I've  got  a  woman's." 

"As  long  as  your  looks  last,"  sneered  he. 

"That  will  be  longer  than  yours,"  said  she  pleas 
antly,  "if  you  keep  on  with  the  automobiles  and  the 
champagne.  And  when  my  looks  are  gone,  my  woman's 
weapons.  .  . 

"Why,  I'll  still  have  the  man's  weapons  left — shan't 
I? — knowledge,  and  the  ability  to  use  it." 

His  expression  of  impotent  fury  mingled  with  com 
pelled  admiration  and  respect  made  his  face  about  as 
unpleasant  to  look  at  as  she  had  ever  seen  it.  But  she 
liked  to  look.  His  confession  of  her  strength  made  her 
feel  stronger.  The  sense  of  strength  was  a  new  sensa 
tion  with  her — new  and  delicious.  Nor  could  the  feel 
ing  that  she  was  being  somewhat  cruel  restrain  her 
from  enjoying  it. 

"I  have  never  asked  quarter,"  she  went  on.  "I  never 
shall.  If  fate  gets  me  down,  as  it  has  many  a  time, 
why  I'll  be  able  to  take  my  medicine  without  weeping 
or  whining.  I've  never  asked  pity.  I've  never  asked 
charity.  That's  why  I'm  here,  Freddie — in  this  apart 
ment,  instead  of  in  a  filthy  tenement  attic — and  in 
these  clothes  instead  of  in  rags — and  with  you  respect 
ing  me,  instead  of  kicking  me  toward  the  gutter.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

He  was  silent. 

"Isn't  it  so?"  she  insisted. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted.  And  his  handsome  eyes  looked 
the  love  so  near  to  hate  that  fills  a  strong  man  for 
a  strong  woman  when  they  clash  and  he  cannot  con- 

444 


SUSAN  LENOX 


quer.     <:No  wonder  I'm  a  fool  about  you,"  he  muttered. 

"I  don't  purpose  that  any  man  or  woman  shall  use 
me,"  she  went  on,  "in  exchange  for  merely  a  few  flat 
teries.  I  insist  that  if  they  use  me,  they  must  let  me 
use  them.  I  shan't  be  mean  about  it,  but  I  shan't  be 
altogether  a  fool,  either.  And  what  is  a  woman  but  a 
fool  when  she  lets  men  use  her  for  nothing  but  being 
called  sweet  and  loving  and  womanly?  Unless  that's 
the  best  she  can  do,  poor  thing!" 

"You  needn't  sneer  at  respectable  women." 

"I  don't,"  replied  she.  "I've  no  sneers  for  anybody. 
I've  discovered  a  great  truth,  Freddie — the  deep-down 
equality  of  all  human  beings — all  of  them  birds  in  the 
same  wind  and  battling  with  it  each  as  best  he  can.  As 
for  myself — with  money,  with  a  career  that  interests 
me,  with  position  that'll  give  me  any  acquaintances  and 
friends  that  are  congenial,  I  don't  care  what  is  said  of 
me." 

As  her  plan  unfolded  itself  fully  to  his  understand 
ing,  which  needed  only  a  hint  to  enable  it  to  grasp  all, 
he  forgot  his  rage  for  a  moment  in  his  interest  and 
admiration.  Said  he: 

"You've  used  me.  Now  you're  going  to  use  Brent — 
eh?  Well — what  will  you  give  him  in  exchange?" 

"He  wants  someone  to  act  certain  parts  in  certain 
plays." 

"Is  that  all  he  wants?" 

"He  hasn't  asked  anything  else." 

"And  if  he  did?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.     You  know  Brent." 

"He's  not  in  love  with  you,"  assented  Palmer.  "He 
idoesn't  want  you  that  way.  There's  some  woman  some 
where,  I've  heard — and  he  doesn't  care  about  anybody 
but  her." 

31  445 


SUSAN  LENOX 


He  was  speaking  in  a  careless,  casual  way,  watching 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  And  she,  taken  off 
guard,  betrayed  in  her  features  the  secret  that  was  a 
secret  even  from  herself.  He  sprang  up  with  a  bound, 
sprang  at  her,  caught  her  up  out  of  her  chair,  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  clasping  her  throat. 

"I  thought  so!"  he  hissed.  "You  love  him — damn 
you!  You  love  him!  You'd  better  look  out,  both  of 
you!" 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  between  her  bedroom 
and  that  of  Madame  Clelie.  Palmer  released  her,  stood 
panting,  with  furious  eyes  on  the  door  from  which  the 
sound  had  come.  Susan  called,  "It's  all  right,  Clelie, 
for  the  present."  Then  she  said  to  Palmer,  "I  told 
Clelie  to  knock  if  she  ever  heard  voices  in  this  room — 
or  any  sound  she  didn't  understand."  She  reseated 
herself,  began  to  massage  her  throat  where  his  fingers 
had  clutched  it.  "It's  fortunate  my  skin  doesn't  mar 
easily,"  she  went  on.  "What  were  you  saying?" 

"I  know  the  truth  now.  You  love  Brent.  That's  the 
milk  in  the  cocoanut." 

She  reflected  on  this,  apparently  with  perfect  tran 
quillity,  apparently  with  no  memory  of  his  furious 
threat  against  her  and  against  Brent.  She  said: 

"Perhaps  I  was  simply  piqued  because  there's  another 
woman." 

"You  are  jealous." 

"I  guess  I  was — a  little." 

"You  admit  that  you  love  him,  you " 

He  checked  himself  on  the  first  hissing  breath  of  the 
foul  epithet.  She  said  tranquilly: 

"Jealousy  doesn't  mean  love.  We're  jealous  in  all 
sorts  of  ways — and  of  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Well — he  cares  nothing  about  you." 

446 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Nothing." 

"And  never  will.  He'd  despise  a  woman  who  had 
been " 

"Don't  hesitate.  Say  it.  I'm  used  to  hearing  it, 
Freddie — and  to  being  it.  And  not  'had  been'  but  'is.' 
I  still  am,  you  know." 

"You're  nort!"  he  cried.  "And  never  were — and 
never  could  be — for  some  unknown  reason,  God  knows 
why." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  lit  another  cigarette. 
He  went  on: 

"You  can't  get  it  out  of  your  head  that  because 
he's  interested  in  you  he's  more  or  less  stuck  on  you. 
That's  the  way  with  women.  The  truth  is,  he  wants 
you  merely  to  act  in  his  plays." 

"And  I  want  that,  too." 

"You  think  I'm  going  to  stand  quietly  by  and  let 
this  thing  go  on — do  you?" 

She  showed  not  the  faintest  sign  of  nervousness  at 
this  repetition,  more  carefully  veiled,  of  his  threat 
against  her — and  against  Brent.  She  chose  the  only 
hopeful  course;  she  went  at  him  boldly  and  directly. 
Said  she  with  amused  carelessness : 

"Why  not?  He  doesn't  want  me.  Even  if  I  love 
him,  I'm  not  giving  him  anything  you  want." 

"How  do  you  know  what  I  want?"  cried  he,  confused 
by  this  unexpected  way  of  meeting  his  attack.  "You 
think  I'm  simply  a  brute — with  no  fine  instincts  or 
feelings " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  laugh.  "Don't  be  ab 
surd,  Freddie,"  said  she.  "You  know  perfectly  well 
you  and  I  don't  call  out  the  finer  feelings  in  each 
other.  If  either  of  us  wanted  that  sort  of  thing,  we'd 
have  to  look  elsewhere." 

447 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"You  mean  Brent— eh?" 

She  laughed  with  convincing  derision.  "What  non 
sense  !"  She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  her  lips 
close  to  his.  The  violet-gray  eyes  were  half  closed,  the 
perfume  of  the  smooth  amber-white  skin,  of  the  thick, 
wavy,  dark  hair,  was  in  his  nostrils.  And  in  a  languor 
ous  murmur  she  soothed  his  subjection  to  a  deep  sleep 
with,  "As  long  as  you  give  me  what  I  want  from  you, 
and  I  give  you  what  you  want  from  me — why  should 
we  wrangle?" 

And  with  a  smile  he  acquiesced.  She  felt  that  she 
had  ended  the  frightful  danger — to  Brent  rather  than 
to  herself — that  suddenly  threatened  from  those  wicked 
eyes  of  Palmer's.  But  it  might  easily  come  again.  She 
did  not  dare  relax  her  efforts,  for  in  the  succeeding 
days  she  saw  that  he  was  like  one  annoyed  by  a  constant 
pricking  from  a  pin  hidden  in  the  clothing  and  searched 
for  in  vain.  He  was  no  longer  jealous  of  Brent.  But 
while  he  didn't  know  what  was  troubling  him,  he  did 
know  that  he  was  uncomfortable. 


XXIII 

IN  but  one  important  respect  was  Brent's  original 
plan  modified.     Instead  of  getting  her  stage  ex 
perience  in  France,  Susan  joined  a  London  com 
pany  making  one  of  those  dreary,  weary,  cheap  and 
trashy  tours  of  the  smaller  cities  of  the  provinces  with 
half  a  dozen  plays  by  Jones,  Pinero,  and  Shaw. 

Clelie  stayed  in  London,  toiling  at  the  language,  de 
termined  to  be  ready  to  take  the  small  part  of  French 
maid  in  Brent's  play  in  the  fall.  Brent  and  Palmer 
accompanied  Susan;  and  every  day  for  several  hours 
Brent  and  the  stage  manager — his  real  name  was 
Thomas  Boil  and  his  professional  name  was  Herbert 
Streathern — coached  the  patient  but  most  unhappy 
Susan  line  by  line,  word  by  word,  gesture  by  gesture, 
in  the  little  parts  she  was  playing.  Palmer  traveled 
with  them,  making  a  pretense  of  interest  that  ill  con 
cealed  his  boredom  and  irritation.  This  for  three 
weeks ;  then  he  began  to  make  trips  to  London  to  amuse 
himself  with  the  sports,  amateur  and  professional,  with 
whom  he  easily  made  friends — some  of  them  men  in  a 
position  to  be  useful  to  him  socially  later  on.  He 
had  not  spoken  of  those  social  ambitions  of  his  since 
Susan  refused  to  go  that  way  with  him — but  she  knew 
he  had  them  in  mind  as  strongly  as  ever.  He  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  must  have  an  objective,  and  what 
other  objective  could  there  be  for  him  who  cared  for 
and  believed  in  the  conventional  ambitions  and  triumphs 
only — the  successes  that  made  the  respectable  world 
gape  and  grovel  and  envy? 

449 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"You'll  not  stick  at  this  long,"  he  said  to  Susan. 

"I'm  frightfully  depressed,"  she  admitted.  "It's  tire 
some — and  hard — and  so  hideously  uncomfortable! 
And  I've  lost  all  sense  of  art  or  profession.  Acting 
seems  to  be  nothing  but  a  trade,  and  a  poor,  cheap  one 
at  that." 

He  was  not  surprised,  but  was  much  encouraged 
by  this  candid  account  of  her  state  of  mind.  Said  he : 

"It's  my  private  opinion  that  only  your  obstinacy 
keeps  you  from  giving  it  up  straight  off.  Surely  you 
must  see  it's  nonsense.  Drop  it  and  come  along — and 
be  comfortable  and  happy.  Why  be  obstinate? 
There's  nothing  in  it." 

"Perhaps  it  is  obstinacy,"  said  she.  "I  like  to  think 
it's  something  else." 

"Drop  it.     You  want  to.     You  know  you  do." 

"I  want  to,  but  I  can't,"  replied  she. 

He  recognized  the  tone,  the  expression  of  the  eyes, 
the  sudden  showing  of  strength  through  the  soft,  young 
contour.  And  he  desisted. 

Never  again  could  there  be  comfort,  much  less  hap 
piness,  until  she  had  tried  out  her  reawakened  ambition. 
She  had  given  up  all  that  had  been  occupying  her 
since  she  left  America  with  Freddie ;  she  had  abandoned 
herself  to  a  life  of  toil.  Certainly  nothing  could  have 
been  more  tedious,  more  tormenting  to  sensitive  nerves, 
than  the  schooling  through  which  Brent  was  putting 
her.  Its  childishness  revolted  her  and  angered  her. 
Experience  had  long  since  lowered  very  considerably 
the  point  at  which  her  naturally  sweet  disposition 
ceased  to  be  sweet — a  process  through  which  every 
good-tempered  person  must  pass  unless  he  or  she  is 
to  be  crushed  and  cast  aside  as  a  failure.  There  were 
days,  many  of  them,  when  it  took  all  her  good  sense, 

450 


SUSAN  LENOX 


all  her  fundamental  faith  in  Brent,  to  restrain  her  from 
an  outbreak.  Streathern  regarded  Brent  as  a  crank, 
and  had  to  call  into  service  all  his  humility  as  a  poor 
Englishman  toward  a  rich  man  to  keep  from  showing 
his  contempt.  And  Brent  seemed  to  be — indeed  was — 
testing  her  forbearance  to  the  uttermost.  He  offered 
not  the  slightest  explanation  of  his  method.  He  simply 
ordered  her  blindly  to  pursue  the  course  he  marked 
out.  She  was  sorely  tempted  to  ask,  to  demand,  ex 
planations.  But  there  stood  out  a  quality  in  Brent 
that  made  her  resolve  ooze  away,  as  soon  as  she  faced 
him.  Of  one  thing  she  was  confident.  Any  lingering 
suspicions  Freddie  might  have  had  of  Brent's  interest 
in  her  as  a  woman,  or  even  of  her  being  interested  in 
him  as  a  man,  must  have  been  killed  beyond  resurrec 
tion.  Freddie  showed  that  he  would  have  hated  Brent, 
would  have  burst  out  against  him,  for  the  unhuman, 
inhuman  way  he  was  treating  her,  had  it  not  been 
that  Brent  was  so  admirably  serving  his  design  to 
have  her  finally  and  forever  disgusted  and  done  with 
the  stage. 

Finally  there  came  a  performance  in  which  the  au 
dience — the  gallery  part  of  it — "booed"  her — not  the 
play,  not  the  other  players,  but  her  and  no  other. 
Brent  came  along,  apparently  by  accident,  as  she  made 
her  exit.  He  halted  before  her  and  scanned  her  coun 
tenance  with  those  all-seeing  eyes  of  his.  Said  he: 

"You  heard  them?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  she. 

"That  was  for  you,"  said  he — and  he  said  it  with 
an  absence  of  sympathy  that  made  it  brutal. 

"For  only  me,"  said  she — frivolously. 

"You  seem  not  to  mind." 

"Certainly  I  mind.  I'm  not  made  of  wood  or  stone." 
451 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  give  it  up?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  steely  light  from  the  violet 
eyes,  a  light  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

"Give  up?"  said  she.  "Not  even  if  you  give  me  up. 
This  thing  has  got  to  be  put  through." 

He  simply  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  said.  "It  will 
be." 

"That  booing — it  almost  struck  me  dead.  When 
it  didn't,  I  for  the  first  time  felt  sure  I  was  going 
to  win." 

He  nodded  again,  gave  her  one  of  his  quick  expres 
sive,  fleeting  glances  that  somehow  made  her  forget 
and  forgive  everything  and  feel  fresh  and  eager  to 
start  in  again.  He  said: 

"When  the  booing  began  and  you  didn't  break  down 
and  run  off  the  stage,  I  knew  that  what  I  hoped  and 
believed  about  you  was  true." 

Streathern  joined  them.  His  large,  soft  eyes  were 
full  of  sympathetic  tears.  He  was  so  moved  that  he 
braved  Brent.  He  said  to  Susan : 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,  Miss  Lenox.  You  were  doing 
exactly  as  Mr.  Brent  ordered,  when  the  booing  broke 
out." 

"Exactly,"  said  Brent. 

Streathern  regarded  him  with  a  certain  nervousness 
and  veiled  pity.  Streathern  had  been  brought  into  con- 
ta$t  with  many  great  men.  He  had  found  them,  each 
and  every  one,  with  this  same  streak  of  wild  folly, 
this  habit  of  doing  things  that  were  to  him  obviously 
useless  and  ridiculous.  It  was  a  profound  mystery 
to  him  why  such  men  succeeded  while  he  himself  who 
never  did  such  things  remained  in  obscurity.  The  only 
explanation  was  the  abysmal  stupidity,  ignorance,  and 
folly  of  the  masses  of  mankind.  What  a  harbor  of 

452 


SUSAN  LENOX 


refuge  that  reflection  has  ever  been  for  mediocrity's 
shattered  and  sinking  vanity !  Yet  the  one  indisputable 
fact  about  the  great  geniuses  of  long  ago  is  that  in 
their  own  country  and  age  "the  common  people  heard 
them  gladly."  Streathern  could  not  now  close  his 
mouth  upon  one  last  appeal  on  behalf  of  the  clever 
and  lovely  and  so  amiable  victim  of  Brent's  mania. 

"I  say,  Mr.  Brent,"  pleaded  he,  "don't  you  think- 
Really  now,  if  you'll  permit  a  chap  not  without  experi 
ence  to  say  so — Don't  you  think  that  by  drilling  her  so 
much  and  so — so  beastly  minutely — you're  making  her 
wooden — machine-like  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Brent,  in  a  tone  that  sent  Streath 
ern  scurrying  away  to  a  place  where  he  could  express 
himself  unseen  and  unheard. 

In  her  fifth  week  she  began  to  improve.  She  felt  at 
home  on  the  stage ;  she  felt  at  home  in  her  part,  what 
ever  it  happened  to  be.  She  was  giving  what  could 
really  be  called  a  performance.  Streathern,  when  he 
was  sure  Brent  could  not  hear,  congratulated  her. 
"It's  wonderfully  plucky  of  you,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
"quite  amazingly  plucky — to  get  yourself  together  and 
go  straight  ahead,  in  spite  of  what  your  American 
friend  has  been  doing  to  you." 

"In  spite  of  it."  cried  Susan.  "Why,  don't  you  see 
that  it's  because  of  what  he's  been  doing?  I  felt  it, 
all  the  time.  I  see  it  now." 

"Oh,  really — do  you  think  so?"  said  Streathern. 

His  tone  made  it  a  polite  and  extremely  discreet 
way  of  telling  her  he  thought  she  had  become  as  mad 
as  Brent.  She  did  not  try  to  explain  to  him  why 
she  was  improving.  In  that  week  she  advanced  by 
long  strides,  and  Brent  was  radiant. 

"Now  we'll  teach  you  scales,"  said  he.  "We'll  teach 
453 


SUSAN  LENOX 


you  the  mechanics  of  expressing  every  variety  of  emo 
tion.  Then  we'll  be  ready  to  study  a  strong  part." 

She  had  known  in  the  broad  from  the  outset  what 
Brent  was  trying  to  accomplish — that  he  was  giving 
her  the  trade  side  of  the  art,  was  giving  it  to  her  quickly 
and  systematically.  But  she  did  not  appreciate  how 
profoundly  right  he  was  until  she  was  "learning  scales." 
Then  she  understood  why  most  so  called  "professional" 
performances  are  amateurish,  haphazard,  without  any 
precision.  She  was  learning  to  posture,  and  to  utter 
every  emotion  so  accurately  that  any  spectator  would 
recognize  it  at  once. 

"And  in  time  your  voice  and  your  body,"  said  Brent, 
"will  become  as  much  your  servants  as  are  Paderewski's 
ten  fingers.  He  doesn't  rely  upon  any  such  rot  as 
inspiration.  Nor  does  any  master  of  any  art.  A  mind 
can  be  inspired  but  not  a  body.  It  must  be  taught. 
You  must  first  have  a  perfect  instrument.  Then,  if 
you  are  a  genius,  your  genius,  having  a  perfect  instru 
ment  to  work  with,  will  produce  perfect  results.  To 
ignore  or  to  neglect  the  mechanics  of  an  art  ia  to 
hamper  or  to  kill  inspiration.  Geniuses — a  few — and 
they  not  the  greatest — have  been  too  lazy  to  train  their 
instruments.  But  anyone  who  is  merely  talented  dares 
not  take  the  risk.  And  you — we'd  better  assume — are 
merely  talented." 

Streathern,  who  had  a  deserved  reputation  as  a 
coach,  was  disgusted  with  Brent's  degradation  of  an 
art.  As  openly  as  he  dared,  he  warned  Susan  against 
the  danger  of  becoming  a  mere  machine — a  puppet, 
responding  stiffly  to  the  pulling  of  strings.  But  Susan 
had  got  over  her  momentary  irritation  against  Brent, 
her  doubt  of  his  judgment  in  her  particular  case.  She 
ignored  Streathern's  advice  that  she  should  be  natural, 

454 


SUSAN   LENOX 


that  she  should  let  her  own  temperament  dictate  varia 
tions  on  his  cut  and  dried  formulae  for  expression. 
She  continued  to  do  as  she  was  bid. 

"If  you  are  not  a  natural  born  actress,"  said  Brent, 
"at  least  you  will  be  a  good  one — so  good  that  most 
critics  will  call  you  great.  And  if  you  are  a  natural 
born  genius  at  acting,  you  will  soon  put  color  in  the 
cheeks  of  these  dolls  I'm  giving  you — and  ease  into 
their  bodies — and  nerves  and  muscles  and  blood  in 
place  of  the  strings." 

In  the  seventh  week  he  abruptly  took  her  out  of  the 
company  and  up  to  London  to  have  each  day  an  hour 
of  singing,  an  hour  of  dancing,  and  an  hour  of  fenc 
ing.  "You'll  ruin  her  health,"  protested  Freddie. 
"You're  making  her  work  like  a  ditch  digger." 

Brent  replied,  "If  she  hasn't  the  health,  she's  got 
to  abandon  the  career.  If  she  has  health,  this  train 
ing  will  give  it  steadiness  and  solidity.  If  there's  a 
weakness  anywhere,  it'll  show  itself  and  can  be  reme 
died." 

And  he  piled  the  work  on  her,  dictated  her  hours  of 
sleep,  her  hours  for  rest  and  for  walking,  her  diet — 
and  little  he  gave  her  to  eat.  When  he  had  her 
thoroughly  broken  to  his  regimen,  he  announced  that 
business  compelled  his  going  immediately  to  America. 
"I  shall  be  back  in  a  month,"  said  he. 

"I  think  I'll  run  over  with  you,"  said  Palmer.  "Do 
you  mind,  Susan?" 

"Clelie  and  I  shall  get  on  very  well,"  she  replied. 
She  would  be  glad  to  have  both  out  of  the  way  that 
she  might  give  her  whole  mind  to  the  only  thing  that 
now  interested  her.  For  the  first  time  she  was  experi 
encing  the  highest  joy  that  comes  to  mortals,  the  only 
joy  that  endures  and  grows  and  defies  all  the  calami- 

455 


SUSAN   LENOX 


ties  of  circumstances — the  joy  of  work  congenial  and 
developing. 

"Yes — come  along,"  said  Brent  to  Palmer.  "Here 
you'll  be  tempting  her  to  break  the  rules."  He  added, 
"Not  that  you  would  succeed.  She  understands  what 
it  all  means,  now — and  nothing  could  stop  her.  That's 
why  I  feel  free  to  leave  her." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Susan.  She  was  gazing 
away  into  space;  at  sight  of  her  expression  Freddie 
turned  hastily  away. 

On  a  Saturday  morning  Susan  and  Clelie,  after  wait 
ing  on  the  platform  at  Euston  Station  until  the  long, 
crowded  train  for  Liverpool  and  the  Lusitania  disap 
peared,  went  back  to  the  lodgings  in  Half  Moon  Street 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  the  vastness  of  London,  of  its 
loneliness  and  dreariness,  of  its  awkward  inhospitality 
to  the  stranger  under  its  pall  of  foggy  smoke.  Susan 
was  thinking  of  Brent's  last  words: 

She  had  said,  "I'll  try  to  deserve  all  the  pains  you've 
taken,  Mr.  Brent." 

"Yes,  I  have  done  a  lot  for  you,"  he  had  replied. 
"I've  put  you  beyond  the  reach  of  any  of  the  calami 
ties  of  life — beyond  the  need  of  any  of  its  consola 
tions.  Don't  forget  that  if  the  steamer  goes  down 
with  all  on  board." 

And  then  she  had  looked  at  him — and  as  Freddie's 
back  was  half  turned,  she  hoped  he  had  not  seen — in 
fact,  she  was  sure  he  had  not,  or  she  would  not  have 
dared.  And  Brent — had  returned  her  look  with  his 
usual  quizzical  smile;  but  she  had  learned  how  to  see 
through  that  mask.  Then — she  had  submitted  to  Fred 
die's  energetic  embrace — had  given  her  hand  to  Brent 
— uGood-by,"  she  had  said;  and  "Good  luck,"  he. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  any  of  the  calamities?  Beyond 
456 


SUSAN  LENOX 


the  need  of  any  of  the  consolations?  Yes — it  was  al 
most  literally  true.  She  felt  the  big  interest — the 
career — growing  up  within  her,  and  expanding,  and 
already  overstepping  all  other  interests  and  emotions. 

Brent  had  left  her  and  Clelie  more  to  do  than  could 
be  done;  thus  they  had  no  time  to  bother  either  about 
the  absent  or  about  themselves.  Looking  back  in 
after  years  on  the  days  that  Freddie  was  away,  Susan 
could  recall  that  from  time  to  time  she  would  find 
her  mind  wandering,  as  if  groping  in  the  darkness  of 
its  own  cellars  or  closets  for  a  lost  thought,  a  missing 
link  in  some  chain  of  thought.  This  even  awakened 
her  several  times  in  the  night — made  her  leap  from 
sleep  into  acute  and  painful  consciousness  as  if  she 
had  recalled  and  instantly  forgotten  some  startling 
and  terrible  thing. 

And  when  Freddie  unexpectedly  came — having  taken 
passage  on  the  Lusitania  for  the  return  voyage,  after 
only  six  nights  and  five  days  in  New  York — she  was 
astonished  by  her  delight  at  seeing  him,  and  by  the 
kind  of  delight  it  was.  For  it  rather  seemed  a  sort 
of  relief,  as  from  a  heavy  burden  of  anxiety. 

"Why  didn't  you  wait  and  come  with  Brent?"  asked 
she. 

"Couldn't  stand  it,"  replied  he.  "I've  grown  clear 
away  from  New  York — at  least  from  the  only  New 
York  I  know.  I  don't  like  the  boys  any  more.  They 
bore  me.  They — offend  me.  And  I  know  if  I  stayed 
on  a  few  days  they'd  begin  to  suspect.  No,  it  isn't 
Europe.  It's — you.  You're  responsible  for  the  change 
in  me." 

He  was  speaking  entirely  of  the  internal  change, 
which  indeed  was  great.  For  while  he  was  still  fond  of 
all  kinds  of  sporting,  it  was  not  in  his  former  crude 

457 


SUSAN   LENOX 


way;  he  had  even  become  something  of  a  connoisseur 
of  pictures  and  was  cultivating  a  respect  for  the 
purity  of  the  English  language  that  made  him  wince 
at  Susan's  and  Brent's  slang.  But  when  he  spoke  thus 
frankly  and  feelingly  of  the  change  in  him,  Susan 
looked  at  him — and,  not  having  seen  him  in  two  weeks 
and  three  days,  she  really  saw  him  for  the  first  time 
in  many  a  month.  She  could  not  think  of  the  in 
ternal  change  he  spoke  of  for  noting  the  external 
change.  He  had  grown  at  least  fifty  pounds  heavier 
than  he  had  been  when  they  came  abroad.  In  one 
way  this  was  an  improvement;  it  gave  him  a  dignity, 
an  air  of  consequence  in  place  of  the  boyish  good 
looks  of  the  days  before  the  automobile  and  before  the 
effects  of  high  living  began  to  show.  But  it  made  of 
him  a  different  man  in  Susan's  eyes — a  man  who  now 
seemed  almost  a  stranger  to  her. 

"Yes,  you  have  changed,"  replied  she  absently.  And 
she  went  and  examined  herself  in  a  mirror. 

"You,  too,"  said  Freddie.  "You  don't  look  older — 
as  I  do.  But — there's  a — a — I  can't  describe  it." 

Susan  could  not  see  it.  "I'm  just  the  same,"  she 
insisted. 

Palmer  laughed.  "You  can't  judge  about  yourself. 
But  all  this  excitement — and  studying — and  thinking — 

and  God  knows  what You're  not  at  all  the  woman  I 

came  abroad  with." 

The  subject  seemed  to  be  making  both  uncomfort 
able;  they  dropped  it. 

Women  are  bred  to  attach  enormous  importance  to 
their  physical  selves — so  much  so  that  many  women 
have  no  other  sense  of  self-respect,  and  regard  them 
selves  as  possessing  the  entirety  of  virtue  if  they  have 
chastity  or  can  pretend  to  have  it.  The  life  Susan 

458 


SUSAN  LENOX 


had  led  upsets  all  this  and  forces  a  woman  either  utterly 
to  despise  herself,  even  as  she  is  despised  of  men,  or 
to  discard  the  sex  measure  of  feminine  self-respect  as 
ridiculously  inadequate,  and  to  seek  some  other  meas 
ure.  Susan  had  sought  this  other  measure,  and  had 
found  it.  She  was,  therefore,  not  a  little  surprised  td 
find — after  Freddie  had  been  back  three  or  four  days 
— that  he  was  arousing  in  her  the  same  sensations 
which  a  strange  man  intimately  about  would  have 
aroused  in  her  in  the  long  past  girlhood  of  innocence. 
It  was  not  physical  repulsion;  it  was  not  a  sense  of 
immorality.  It  was  a  kind  of  shyness,  a  feeling  of  vio 
lated  modesty.  She  felt  herself  blushing  if  he  came  into 
the  room  when  she  was  dressing.  As  soon  as  she 
awakened  in  the  morning  she  sprang  from  bed  beside 
him  and  hastened  into  her  dressing-room  and  closed 
the  door,  resisting  an  impulse  to  lock  it.  Apparently 
the  feeling  of  physical  modesty  which  she  had  thought 
dead,  killed  to  the  last  root,  was  not  dead,  was  once 
more  stirring  toward  life. 

"What  are  you  blushing  about?"  asked  he,  when 
she,  passing  through  the  bedroom,  came  suddenly  upon 
him,  very  scantily  dressed. 

She  laughed  confusedly  and  beat  a  hurried  retreat. 
She  began  to  revolve  the  idea  of  separate  bedrooms ;  she 
resolved  that  when  they  moved  again  she  would  arrange 
it  on  some  pretext — and  she  was  looking  about  for 
a  new  place  on  the  plea  that  their  quarters  in  Half 
Moon  Street  were  too  cramped.  All  this  close  upon 
his  return,  for  it  was  before  the  end  of  the  first  week 
that  she,  taking  a  shower  bath  one  morning,  saw  the 
door  of  the  bathroom  opening  to  admit  him,  and  cried 
out  sharply: 

"Close  that  door!" 

459 


SUSAN    LENOX 


"It's  I,"  Freddie  called,  to  make  himself  heard  above 
the  noise  of  the  water.  "Shut  off  that  water  and 
listen." 

She  shut  off  the  water,  but  instead  of  listening,  she 
said,  nervous  but  determined: 

"Please  close  the  door.     I'll  be  out  directly." 

"Listen,  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  and  she  now  noticed 
that  his  voice  was  curiously,  arrestingly,  shrill. 

"Brent — has  been  hurt — badly  hurt."  She  was  drip 
ping  wet.  She  thrust  her  arms  into  her  bathrobe,  flung 
wide  the  partly  open  door.  He  was  standing  there,  a 
newspaper  in  his  trembling  hand.  "This  is  a  dispatch 
from  New  York — dated  yesterday,"  he  began.  "Lis 
ten,"  and  he  read : 

"During  an  attempt  to  rob  the  house  of  Mr.  Robert 
Brent,  the  distinguished  playwright,  early  this  morning, 
Mr.  Brent  was  set  upon  and  stabbed  in  a  dozen  places, 
his  butler,  James  Fourget,  was  wounded,  perhaps  mortally, 
and  his  secretary,  Mr.  J.  C.  Garvey,  was  knocked  insen 
sible.  The  thieves  made  their  escape.  The  police  have 
several  clues.  Mr.  Brent  is  hovering  between  life  and 
death,  with  the  chances  against  him." 

Susan,  leaning  with  all  her  weight  against  the  door 
jamb,  saw  Palmer's  white  face  going  away  from  her, 
heard  his  agitated  voice  less  and  less  distinctly — fell 
to  the  floor  with  a  crash  and  knew  no  more. 

When  she  came  to,  she  was  lying  in  the  bed;  about 
it  or  near  it  were  Palmer,  her  maid,  his  valet,  Clelie, 
several  strangers.  Her  glance  turned  to  Freddie's 
face  and  she  looked  into  his  eyes  amid  a  profound 
silence.  She  saw  in  those  eyes  only  intense  anxiety  and 
intense  affection.  He  said: 

"What  is  it,  dear?  You  are  all  right.  Only  a  faint 
ing  spell." 

460 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Was  that  true?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  he'll  pull  through.  The  surgeons  save 
everybody  nowadays.  I've  cabled  his  secretary,  Gar- 
vey,  and  to  my  lawyers.  We'll  have  an  answer  soon. 
I've  sent  out  for  all  the  papers." 

"She  must  not  be  agitated,"  interposed  a  medical 
looking  man  with  stupid  brown  eyes  and  a  thin  brown 
beard  sparsely  veiling  his  gaunt  agid  pasty  face. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Palmer,  curtly.  "My  wife  is  not 
an  invalid.  Our  closest  friend  has  been  almost  killed. 
To  keep  the  news  from  her  would  be  to  make  her 
sick." 

Susan  closed  her  eyes.  "Thank  you,"  she  mur 
mured.  "Send  them  all  away — except  Clelie.  .  .  . 
Leave  me  alone  with  Clelie." 

Pushing  the  others  before  him,  Freddie  moved 
toward  the  door  into  the  hall.  At  the  threshold  he 
paused  to  say: 

"Shall  I  bring  the  papers  when  they  come?" 

She  hesitated.  "No,"  she  answered  without  opening 
her  eyes.  "Send  them  in.  I  want  to  read  them,  my 
self." 

She  lay  quiet,  Clelie  stroking  her  brow.  From  time 
to  time  a  shudder  passed  over  her.  When,  in  answer 
to  a  knock,  Clelie  took  in  the  bundle  of  newspapers, 
she  sat  up  in  bed  and  read  the  meager  dispatches.  The 
long  accounts  were  made  long  by  the  addition  of  facts 
about  Brent's  life.  The  short  accounts  added  nothing 
to  what  she  already  knew.  When  she  had  read  all,  she 
sank  back  among  the  pillows  and  closed  her  eyes.  A 
long,  long  silence  in  the  room.  Then  a  soft  knock 
at  the  door.  Clelie  left  the  bedside  to  answer  it,  re 
turned  to  say: 

"Mr.  Freddie  wishes  to  come  in  with  a  telegram." 
461 


SUSAN   LENOX 


Susan  started  up  wildly.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and 
staring — a  look  of  horror.  "No — no !"  she  cried. 
Then  she  compressed  her  lips,  passed  her  hand  slowly 
over  her  brow.  "Yes — tell  him  to  come  in." 

Her  gaze  was  upon  the  door  until  it  opened,  leaped 
to  his  face,  to  his  eyes,  the  instant  he  appeared.  He 
was  smiling1 — hopefully,  but  not  gayly. 

"Garvey  says" — and  he  read  from  a  slip  of  paper  in 
his  hand — "  'None  of  the  wounds  necessarily  mortal. 
Doctors  refuse  to  commit  themselves,  but  I  believe  he 
has  a  good  chance.' ' 

He  extended  the  cablegram  that  she  might  read 
for  herself,  and  said,  "He'll  win,  my  dear.  He  has 
luck,  and  lucky  people  always  win  in  big  things." 

Her  gaze  did  not  leave  his  face.  One  would  have 
said  that  she  had  not  heard,  that  she  was  still  seek 
ing  what  she  had  admitted  him  to  learn.  He  sat  down 
where  Clelie  had  been,  and  said: 

"There's  only  one  thing  for  us  to  do,  and  that  is 
to  go  over  at  once." 

She  closed  her  eyes.  A  baffled,  puzzled  expression 
was  upon  her  deathly  pale  face. 

"We  can  sail  on  the  Mauretania  Saturday,"  contin 
ued  he.  "I've  telephoned  and  there  are  good  rooms." 

She  turned  her  face  away. 

"Don't  you  feel  equal  to  going?" 

"As  you  say,  we  must." 

"The  trip  can't  do  you  any  harm."  His  forced 
composure  abruptly  vanished  and  he  cried  out  hys 
terically :  "Good  God!  It's  incredible."  Then  he 
got  himself  in  hand  again,  and  went  on :  "No  wonder 
it  bowled  you  out.  I  had  my  anxiety  about  you  to 

break   the   shock.      But   you How   do   you   feel 

now?" 

462 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"I'm  going  to  dress." 

"I'll  send  you  in  some  brandy."  He  bent  and  kissed 
her.  A  shudder  convulsed  her — a  shudder  visible  even 
through  the  covers.  But  he  seemed  not  to  note  it,  and 
went  on:  "I  didn't  realize  how  fond  I  was  of  Brent 
until  I  saw  that  thing  in  the  paper.  I  almost  fainted, 
myself.  I  gave  Clelie  a  horrible  scare." 

"I  thought  you  were  having  an  attack,"  said  Clelie. 
"My  husband  looked  exactly  as  you  did  when  he  died 
that  way." 

Susan's  strange  eyes  were  gazing  intently  at  him — 
the  searching,  baffled,  persistently  seeking  look*  She 
closed  them  as  he  turned  from  the  bed.  When  she  and 
Clelie  were  alone  and  she  was  dressing,  she  said : 

"Freddie  gave  you  a  scare?" 

"I  was  at  breakfast,"  replied  Clelie,  "was  pouring  my 
coffee.  He  came  into  the  room  in  his  bathrobe — took 
up  the  papers  from  the  table — opened  to  the  foreign 
news  as  he  always  does.  I  happened  to  be  looking  at 
him" — Clelie  flushed — "he  is  very  handsome  in  that 
robe — and  all  at  once  he  dropped  the  paper — grew 
white — staggered  and  fell  into  a  chair.  Exactly  like  my 
husband." 

Susan,  seated  at  her  dressing-table,  was  staring  ab 
sently  out  of  the  window.  She  shook  her  head  impa 
tiently,  drew  a  long  breath,  went  on  with  her  toilet. 


XXIV 

A  FEW  minutes  before  the  dinner  hour  she  came 
into  the  drawing  room.  Palmer  and  Madame 
Deliere  were  already  there,  near  the  fire  which 
the  unseasonable  but  by  no  means  unusual  coolness  of 
the  London  summer  evening  made  extremely  comfort 
able — and,  for  Americans,  necessary.  Palmer  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  blaze,  moodily  smoking  a  ciga 
rette.  That  evening  his  now  almost  huge  form  looked 
more  degenerated  than  usual  by  the  fat  of  high  liv 
ing  and  much  automobiling.  His  fleshy  face,  handsome 
still  and  of  a  refined  type,  bore  the  traces  of  anxious 
sorrow.  Clelie,  sitting  at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace 
and  absently  turning  the  leaves  of  an  illustrated  French 
magazine,  had  in  her  own  way  an  air  as  funereal  as 
Freddie's.  As  Susan  entered,  they  glanced  at  her. 

Palmer  uttered  and  half  suppressed  an  ejaculation  of 
amazement.  Susan  was  dressed  as  for  opera  or  ball 
— one  of  her  best  evening  dresses,  the  greatest  care  in 
arranging  her  hair  and  the  details  of  her  toilette. 
Never  had  she  been  more  beautiful.  Her  mode  of  life 
since  she  came  abroad  with  Palmer,  the  thoughts  that 
had  been  filling  her  brain  and  giving  direction  to  her 
life  since  she  accepted  Brent  as  her  guide  and  Brent's 
plans  as  her  career,  had  combined  to  give  her  air  of 
distinction  the  touch  of  the  extraordinary — the  touch 
that  characterizes  the  comparatively  few  human  be 
ings  who  live  the  life  above  and  apart  frojn  that  of 
the  common  run — the  life  illuminated  by  imagination. 
At  a  glance  one  sees  that  they  are  not  of  the  eaters, 

464 


SUSAN   LENOX 


drinkers,  sleepers,  and  seekers  after  the  shallow  easy 
pleasures  money  provides  ready-made.  They  shine  by 
their  own  light;  the  rest  of  mankind  shines  either  by 
light  reflected  from  them  or  not  at  all. 

Looking  at  her  that  evening  as  she  came  into  the 
comfortable,  old-fashioned  English  room,  with  its 
somewhat  heavy  but  undeniably  dignified  furniture  and 
draperies,  the  least  observant  could  not  have  said  that 
she  was  in  gala  attire  because  she  was  in  gala  mood. 
Beneath  the  calm  of  her  surface  expression  lay  some 
thing  widely  different.  Her  face,  slim  and  therefore 
almost  beyond  the  reach  of  the  attacks  of  time  and 
worry,  was  of  the  type  to  which  a  haggard  expression 
is  becoming.  Her  eyes,  large  and  dreamy,  seemed  to 
be  seeing  visions  of  unutterable  sadness,  and  the  scar 
let  streak  of  her  mouth  seemed  to  emphasize  their  pa 
thos.  She  looked  young,  very  young;  yet  there  was 
also  upon  her  features  the  stamp  of  experience,  the 
experience  of  suffering.  She  did  not  notice  the  two 
by  the  fire,  but  went  to  the  piano  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room  and  stood  gazing  out  into  the  lovely  twilight 
of  the  garden. 

Freddie,  who  saw  only  the  costume,  said  in  an  under 
tone  to  Clelie,  "What  sort  of  freak  is  this?" 

Said  Madame  Deliere:  "An  uncle  of  mine  lost  his 
wife.  They  were  young  and  he  loved  her  to  distrac 
tion.  Betweeen  her  death  and  the  funeral  he  scan 
dalized  everybody  by  talking  incessantly  of  the  most 
trivial  details — the  cards,  the  mourning,  the  flowers, 
his  own  clothes.  But  the  night  of  the  funeral  he 
killed  himself." 

Palmer  winced  as  if  Clelie  had  struck  him.  Then 
an  expression  of  terror,  of  fear,  came  into  his  eyes. 
"You  don't  think  she'd  do  that?"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

465 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"Certainly  not,"  replied  the  young  Frenchwoman. 
"I  was  simply  trying  to  explain  her.  She  dressed  be 
cause  she  was  unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing.  Real 
sorrow  doesn't  think  about  appearances."  Then  with 
quick  tact  she  added:  "Why  should  she  kill  herself? 
Monsieur  Brent  is  getting  well.  Also,  while  she's  a 
devoted  friend  of  his,  she  doesn't  love  him,  but  you." 

"I'm  all  upset,"  said  Palmer,  in  confused  apology. 

He  gazed  fixedly  at  Susan — a  straight,  slim  figure 
with  the  carriage  and  the  poise  of  head  that  indicate 
self-confidence  and  pride.  As  he  gazed  Madame  Clelie 
watched  him  with  fascinated  eyes.  It  was  both  thrill 
ing  and  terrifying  to  see  such  love  as  he  was  revealing 
— a  love  more  dangerous  than  hate.  Palmer  noted  that 
he  was  observed,  abruptly  turned  to  face  the  fire. 

A  servant  opened  the  doors  into  the  dining-room, 
Madame  Deliere  rose.  "Come,  Susan,"  said  she. 

Susan  looked  at  her  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"Dinner  is  served." 

"I  do  not  care  for  dinner,"  said  Susan,  seating  her 
self  at  the  piano. 

"Oh,  but  you " 

"Let  her  alone,"  said  Freddie,  curtly.  "You  and 
I  will  go  in." 

Susan,  alone,  dropped  listless  hands  into  her  lap. 
How  long  she  sat  there  motionless  and  with  mind  a 
blank  she  did  not  know.  She  was  aroused  by  a  sound 
in  the  hall — in  the  direction  of  the  outer  door  of  their 
apartment.  She  started  up,  instantly  all  alive  and 
alert,  and  glided  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
A  servant  met  her  at  the  threshold.  He  had  a  cable 
gram  on  a  tray. 

"For  Mr.  Palmer,"  said  he. 

But  she,  not  hearing,  took  the  envelope  and  tore  it 

466 


SUSAN   LENOX 


open.     At  a  sweep  her  eyes  took  in  the  unevenly  type 
written  words : 


Brent  died  at  half  past  two  this  afternoon. 

GARVEY. 


She  gazed  wonderingly  at  the  servant,  reread  the 
cablegram.  The  servant  said:  "Shall  I  take  it  to 
Mr.  Palmer,  ma'am?" 

"No.     That  is  all,  thanks,"  replied  she. 

And  she  walked  slowly  across  the  room  to  the  fire. 
She  shivered,  adjusted  one  of  the  shoulder  straps  of 
her  low-cut  pale  green  dress.  She  read  the  cablegram 
a  third  time,  laid  it  gently,  thoughtfully,  upon  the 
mantel.  "Brent  died  at  half  past  two  this  afternoon." 
Died.  Yes,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of 
those  words.  She  knew  that  the  message  was  true. 
But  she  did  not  feel  it.  She  was  seeing  Brent  as  he 
had  been  when  they  said  good-by.  And  it  would  take 
something  more  than  a  mere  message  to  make  her  feel 
that  the  Brent  so  vividly  alive,  so  redolent  of  life,  of 
activity,  of  energy,  of  plans  and  projects,  the  Brent 
of  health  and  strength,  had  ceased  to  be.  "Brent  died 
at  half  past  two  this  afternoon."  Except  in  the  great 
crises  we  all  act  with  a  certain  theatricalism,  do  the 
thing  books  and  plays  and  the  example  of  others  have 
taught  us  to  do.  But  in  the  great  crises  we  do  as  we 
feel.  Susan  knew  that  Brent  was  dead.  If  he  had 
meant  less  to  her,  she  would  have  shrieked  or  fainted 
or  burst  into  wild  sobs.  But  not  when  he  was  her 
whole  future.  She  knew  he  was  dead,  but  she  did  not 
believe  it.  So  she  stood  staring  at  the  flames,  and 
wondering  why,  when  she  knew  such  a  frightful  thing, 
she  should  remain  calm.  When  she  had  heard  that  he 

467 


SUSAN   LENOX 


was  injured,  she  had  felt,  now  she  did  not  feel  at  all. 
Her  body,  her  brain,  went  serenely  on  in  their  routine. 
The  part  of  her  that  was  her  very  self — had  it  died,  and 
not  Brent? 

She  turned  her  back  to  the  fire,  gazed  toward  the 
opposite  wall.  In  a  mirror  there  she  saw  the  reflection 
of  Palmer,  at  table  in  the  adjoining  room.  A  servant 
was  holding  a  dish  at  his  left  and  he  was  helping  him 
self.  She  observed  his  every  motion,  observed  his  fat 
tened  body,  his  round  and  large  face,  the  forming  roll 
of  fat  at  the  back  of  his  neck.  All  at  once  she  grew 
cold — cold  as  she  had  not  been  since  the  night  she 
and  Etta  Brashear  walked  the  streets  of  Cincinnati. 
The  ache  of  this  cold,  like  the  cold  of  death,  was  an 
agony.  She  shook  from  head  to  foot.  She  turned 
toward  the  mantel  again,  looked  at  the  cablegram.  But 
she  did  not  take  it  in  her  hands.  She  could  see — in  the 
air,  before  her  eyes — in  clear,  sharp  lettering — "Brent 
died  at  half  past  two  this  afternoon.  Garvey." 

The  sensation  of  cold  faded  into  a  sensation  of  ap 
proaching  numbness.  She  went  into  the  hall — to  her 
own  rooms.  In  the  dressing-room  her  maid,  Clemence, 
was  putting  away  the  afternoon  things  she  had  taken 
off.  She  stood  at  the  dressing  table,  unclasping  the 
string  of  pearls.  She  said  to  Clemence  tranquilly : 

"Please  pack  in  the  small  trunk  with  the  broad 
stripes  three  of  my  plainest  street  dresses — some  un 
derclothes — the  things  for  a  journey — only  neces 
saries.  Some  very  warm  things,  please,  Clemence,  I've 
suffered  from  cold,  and  I  can't  bear  the  idea  of  it. 
And  please  telephone  to  the — to  the  Cecil  for  a  room 
and  bath.  When  you  have  finished  I  shall  pay  you 
what  I  owe  and  a  month's  wages  extra.  I  cannot  af 
ford  to  keep  you  any  longer." 

468 


SUSAN  LENOX 


"But,  madame" — Clemence  fluttered  in  agitation — 
"Madame  promised  to  take  me  to  America." 

"Telephone  for  the  rooms  for  Miss  Susan  Lenox," 
said  Susan.  She  was  rapidly  taking  off  her  dress.  "If 
I  took  you  to  America  I  should  have  to  let  you  go  as 
soon  as  we  landed." 

"But,  madame—"  Clemence  advanced  to  assist  her. 

"Please  pack  the  trunk,"  said  Susan.  "I  am  leaving 
here  at  once." 

"I  prefer  to  go  to  America,  even  if  madame " 

"Very  well.     I'll  take  you.     But  you  understand?" 

"Perfectly,  madame " 

A  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  and  Palmer  was  at 
the  threshold.  His  eyes  were  wild,  his  face  distorted. 
His  hair,  usually  carefully  arranged  over  the  rapidly 
growing  bald  spot  above  his  brow,  was  disarranged 
in  a  manner  that  would  have  been  ludicrous  but  for 
the  terrible  expression  of  his  face.  "Go !"  he  said 
harshly  to  the  maid;  and  he  stood  fretting  the  knob 
until  she  hastened  out  and  gave  him  the  chance  to  close 
the  door.  Susan,  calm  and  apparently  unconscious  of 
his  presence,  went  on  with  her  rapid  change  of  costume. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  with  fingers  trembling,  dropped  heav 
ily  into  a  chair  near  the  door.  She,  seated  on  the 
floor,  was  putting  on  boots. 

When  she  had  finished  one  and  was  beginning  on 
the  other  he  said  stolidly : 

"You  think  I  did  it" — not  a  question  but  an  asser 
tion. 

"I  know  it,"  replied  she.  She  was  so  seated  that  he 
was  seeing  her  in  profile. 

"Yes — I  did,"  he  went  on.  He  settled  himself  more 
deeply  in  the  chair,  crossed  his  legs.  "And  I  am  glad 
that  I  did." 

469 


SUSAN   LENOX 


She  kept  on  at  lacing  the  boot.  There  was  nothing 
in  her  expression  to  indicate  emotion,  or  even  that  she 
heard. 

"I  did  it,"  continued  he,  "because  I  had  the  right. 
He  invited  it.  He  knew  me — knew  what  to  expect.  I 
suppose  he  decided  that  you  were  worth  taking  the 
risk.  It's  strange  what  fools  men — all  men — we  men — 
are  about  women.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  knew  it.  He  didn't 
blame  me." 

She  stopped  lacing  the  boot,  turned  so  that  she  could' 
look  at  him. 

"Do  you  remember  his  talking  about  me  one  day?" 
he  went  on,  meeting  her  gaze  naturally.  "He  said  I 
was  a  survival  of  the  Middle  Ages — had  a  medieval 
Italian  mind — said  I  would  do  anything  to  gain  my 
end — and  would  have  a  clear  conscience  about  it.  Do 
you  remember?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  don't  see  why  I  had  the  right  to  kiH  him?" 

A  shiver  passed  over  her.  She  turned  away  again, 
began  again  to  lace  the  boot — but  now  her  fingers  were 
uncertain. 

"I'll  explain,"  pursued  he.  "You  and  I  were  getting 
along  fine.  He  had  had  his  chance  with  you  and  had 
lost  it.  Well,  he  comes  over  here — looks  us  up — puts 
himself  between  you  and  me — proceeds  to  take  you 
away  from  me.  Not  in  a  square  manly  way  but  under 
the  pretense  of  giving  you  a  career.  He  made  you  rest 
less — dissatisfied.  He  got  you  away  from  me.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

She  was  sitting  motionless  now. 

Palmer  went  on  in  the  same  harsh,  jerky  way: 

"Now,  nobody  in  the  world — not  even  you — knew 
me  better  than  Brent  did.  He  knew  what  to  expect — 

470 


SUSAN   LENOX 


if  I  caught  on  to  what  was  doing.     And  I  guess  he 
knew  I  would  be  pretty  sure  to  catch  on." 

"He  never  said  a  word  to  me  that  you  couldn't  have 
heard,"  said  Susan. 

"Of  course  not,"  retorted  Palmer.  "That  isn't  the 
question.  It  don't  matter  whether  he  wanted  you  for 
himself  or  for  his  plays.  The  point  is  that  he  took 
you  away  from  me — he,  my  friend — and  did  it  by 
stealth.  You  can't  deny  that." 

"He  offered  me  a  chance  for  a  career — that  was  all," 
said  she.  "He  never  asked  for  rny  love — or  showed  any 
interest  in  it.  I  gave  him  that." 

He  laughed — his  old-time,  gentle,  sweet,  wicked 
laugh.  He  said: 

"Well — it'd  have  been  better  for  him  if  you  hadn't. 
All  it  did  for  him  was  to  cost  him  his  life." 

Up  she  sprang.  "Don't  say  that!"  she  cried  pas 
sionately — so  passionately  that  her  whole  body  shook. 
"Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  it?  I  know  that  I  killed 
him.  But  I  don't  feel  that  he's  dead.  If  I  did,  I'd 
not  be  able  to  live.  But  I  can't !  I  can't !  For  me  he 
is  as  much  alive  as  ever." 

"Try  to  think  that — if  it  pleases  you,"  sneered  Pal 
mer.  "The  fact  remains  that  it  was  you  who  killed 
him." 

Again  she  shivered.     "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  killed  him." 

"And  that's  why  I  hate  you,"  Palmer  went  on,  calm 
and  deliberate — except  his  eyes ;  they  were  terrible.  "A 
few  minutes  ago — when  I  was  exulting  that  he  would 
probably  die — just  then  I  found  that  opened  cable  on 
the  mantel.  Do  you  know  what  it  did  to  me?  It  made 

me  hate  you.     When  I  read  it "  Freddie  puffed  at 

his  cigarette  in  silence.      She  dropped  weakly  to  the 
chair  at  the  dressing  table. 

471 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"Curse  it!"  he  burst  out.  "I  loved  him.  Yes,  I 
was  crazy  about  him — and  am  still.  I'm  glad  I  killed 
him.  I'd  do  it  again.  I  had  to  do  it.  He  owed  me 
his  life.  But  that  doesn't  make  me  forgive  you" 

A  long  silence.  Her  fingers  wandered  among  the  ar 
ticles  spread  upon  the  dressing  table.  He  said : 

"You're  getting  ready  to  leave?" 

"I'm  going  to  a  hotel  at  once." 

"Well,  you  needn't.  I'm  leaving.  You're  done  with 
me.  But  I'm  done  with  you."  He  rose,  bent  upon 
her  his  wicked  glance,  sneering  and  cruel.  "You  never 
want  to  see  me  again.  No  more  do  I  ever  want  to  see 
you  again.  I  wish  to  God  I  never  had  seen  you.  You 
cost  me  the  only  friend  I  ever  had  that  I  cared  about. 
And  what's  a  woman  beside  a  friend — a  man  friend? 
You've  made  a  fool  of  me,  as  a  woman  always  does 
of  a  man — always,  by  God!  If  she  loves  him,  she  de 
stroys  him.  If  she  doesn't  love  him,  he  destroys  him 
self." 

Susan  covered  her  face  with  her  bare  arms  and 
sank  down  at  the  dressing  table.  "For  pity's  sake," 
she  cried  brokenly,  "spare  me — spare  me!" 

He  seized  her  roughly  by  the  shoulder.  "Just  flesh !" 
he  said.  "Beautiful  flesh — but  just  female.  And  look 
what  a  fool  you've  made  of  me — and  the  best  man  in 
the  world  dead — over  yonder !  Spare  you  ?  Oh,  you'll 
pull  through  all  right.  You'll  pull  through  everything 
and  anything — and  come  out  stronger  and  better  look 
ing  and  better  off.  Spare  you  !  Hell !  I'd  have  killed 
you  instead  of  him  if  I'd  known  I  was  going  to  hate 
you  after  I'd  done  the  other  thing.  I'd  do  it  yet — you 
dirty  skirt!" 

He  jerked  her  unresisting  form  to  its  feet,  gazed  at 
her  like  an  insane  fiend.  With  a  sob  he  seized  her  in 

472 


SUSAN   LENOX 


his  arms,  crushed  her  against  his  breast,  sunk  his  fin 
gers  deep  into  her  hair,  kissed  it,  grinding  his  teeth  as 
he  kissed.  "I  hate  you,  damn  you — and  I  love  you!" 
He  flung  her  back  into  the  chair — out  of  his  life. 
"You'll  never  see  me  again !"  And  he  fled  from  the 
room — from  the  house. 


XXV 

THE  big  ship  issued  from  the  Mersey  into  ugly 
waters — into  the  weather  that  at  all  seasons 
haunts  and  curses  the  coasts  of  Northern  Eu 
rope.  From  Saturday  until  Wednesday  Susan  and 
Madame  Deliere  had  true  Atlantic  seas  and  skies ;  and 
the  ship  leaped  and  shivered  and  crashed  along  like 
a  brave  cavalryman  in  the  rear  of  a  rout — fighting  and 
flying,  flying  and  fighting.  Four  days  of  hours  whose 
every  waking  second  lagged  to  record  itself  in  a  dis 
tinct  pang  of  physical  wretchedness ;  four  days  in 
which  all  emotions  not  physical  were  suspended,  in 
which  even  the  will  to  live,  most  tenacious  of  primal 
instincts  in  a  sane  human  being,  yielded  somewhat  to 
the  general  lassitude  and  disgust.  Yet  for  Susan  Lenox 
four  most  fortunate  days;  for  in  them  she  underwent 
a  mental  change  that  enabled  her  to  emerge  delivered 
of  the  strain  that  threatened  at  every  moment  to  cause 
a  snap. 

On  the  fifth  day  her  mind,  crutched  by  her  resum 
ing  body,  took  up  again  its  normal  routine.  She  be 
gan  to  dress  herself,  to  eat,  to  exercise — the  mechanical 
things  first,  as  always — then  to  think.  The  grief 
that  had  numbed  her  seemed  to  have  been  left  behind 
in  England  where  it  had  suddenly  struck  her  down — 
England  far  away  and  vague  across  those  immense  and 
infuriated  waters,  like  the  gulf  of  death  between  two 
incarnations.  No  doubt  that  grief  was  awaiting  her 
at  the  other  shores ;  no  doubt  there  she  would  feel  that 
Brent  was  gone.  But  she  would  be  better  able  to  bear 

474 


SUSAN  LENOX 


the  discovery.  The  body  can  be  accustomed  to  the 
deadliest  poisons,  so  that  they  become  harmless — even 
useful — even  a  necessary  aid  to  life.  In  the  same  way 
the  mind  can  grow  accustomed  to  the  crudest  calami 
ties,  tolerate  them,  use  them  to  attain  a  strength  and 
power  the  hothoused  soul  never  gets. 

When  a  human  being  is  abruptly  plunged  into  an 
unnatural  unconsciousness  by  mental  or  physical  ca 
tastrophes,  the  greatest  care  is  taken  that  the  awak 
ening  to  normal  life  again  be  slow,  gradual,  without 
shock.  Otherwise  the  return  would  mean  death  or 
insanity  or  lifelong  affliction  with  radical  weakness.  It 
may  be  that  this  sea  voyage  with  its  four  days  of  agita 
tions  that  lowered  Susan's  physical  life  to  a  harmony 
of  wretchedness  with  her  mental  plight,  and  the  suc 
ceeding  days  of  gradual  calming  and  restoration,  acted 
upon  her  to  save  her  from  disaster.  There  will  be 
those  readers  of  her  story  who,  judging  her,  perhaps, 
by  themselves — as  revealed  in  their  judgments,  rather 
than  in  their  professions — will  think  it  was  quite  unnec 
essary  to  awaken  her  gradually;  they  will  declare 
her  a  hard-hearted  person,  caring  deeply  about  no  one 
but  herself,  or  one  of  those  curiosities  of  human  na 
ture  that  are  interested  only  in  things,  not  at  all  in 
persons,  even  in  themselves.  There  may  also  be  those 
who  will  see  in  her  a  soft  and  gentle  heart  for  which 
her  intelligence  finally  taught  her  to  construct  a  shield 
— more  or  less  effective — against  buffetings  which 
would  have  destroyed  or,  worse  still,  maimed  her. 
These  will  feel  that  the  sea  voyage,  the  sea  change,  sus 
pending  the  normal  human  life,  the  life  on  land,  tided 
her  over  a  crisis  that  otherwise  must  have  been  disas 
trous. 

However  this  may  be — and  who  dares  claim  the 
475 


SUSAN   LENOX 


definite  knowledge  of  the  mazes  of  human  character 
and  motive  to  be  positive  about  the  matter? — however 
it  may  be,  on  Thursday  afternoon  they  steamed  along 
a  tranquil  and  glistening  sea  into  the  splendor  and 
majesty  of  New  York  Harbor.  And  Susan  was  again 
her  calm,  sweet  self,  as  the  violet-gray  eyes  gazing  pen 
sively  from  the  small,  strongly-featured  face  plainly 
showed.  Herself  again,  with  the  wound — deepest  if 
not  cruelest  of  her  many  wounds — covered  and  with 
its  poison  under  control.  She  was  ready  again  to 
begin  to  live — ready  to  fulfill  our  only  certain  mission 
on  this  earth,  for  we  are  not  here  to  succumb  and  to 
die,  but  to  adapt  ourselves  and  live.  And  those  whd 
laud  the  succumbers  and  the  diers — yea,  even  the 
blessed  martyrs  of  sundry  and  divers  fleeting  issues  usu 
ally  delusions — may  be  paying  ill-deserved  tribute  to 
vanity,  obstinacy,  lack  of  useful  common  sense,  passion 
for  futile  and  untimely  agitation — or  sheer  cowardice. 
Truth — and  what  is  truth  but  right  living? — truth 
needs  no  martyrs ;  and  the  world  needs  not  martyrs, 
not  corpses  rotting  in  unmarked  or  monumented 
graves,  but  intelligent  men  and  women,  healthy  in  body 
and  mind,  capable  of  leading  the  human  race  as  fast  as 
it  is  able  to  go  in  the  direction  of  the  best  truth  to 
which  it  is  able  at  that  time  to  aspire. 

As  the  ship  cleared  Quarantine  Susan  stood  on  the 
main  deck  well  forward,  with  Madame  Clelie  beside  her. 
And  up  within  her,  defying  all  rebuke,  surged  the  hope 
that  cannot  die  in  strong  souls  living  in  healthy 
bodies. 

She  had  a  momentary  sense  of  shame,  born  of  the 
feeling  that  it  is  basest,  most  heartless  selfishness  to 
live,  to  respond  to  the  caress  of  keen  air  upon  healthy 
skin,  of  glorious  light  upon  healthy  eyes,  when  there  are 

476 


SUSAN   LENOX 


others  shut  out  and  shut  away  from  these  joys  forever. 
Then  she  said  to  herself,  "But  no  one  need  apologize  for 
being  alive  and  for  hoping.  I  must  try  to  justify  him 
for  all  he  did  for  me." 

A  few  miles  of  beautiful  water  highway  between  cir 
cling  shores  of  green,  and  afar  off  through  the  mist 
Madame  Clelie's  fascinated  eyes  beheld  a  city  of  en 
chantment.  It  appeared  and  disappeared,  reappeared 
only  to  disappear  again,  as  its  veil  of  azure  mist  was 
blown  into  thick  or  thin  folds  by  the  light  breeze.  One 
moment  the  Frenchwoman  would  think  there  was  noth 
ing  ahead  but  more  and  ever  more  of  the  bay  glittering 
in  the  summer  sunlight.  The  next  moment  she  would 
see  again  that  city — or  was  it  a  mirage  of  a  city? — 
towers,  mighty  walls,  domes  rising  mass  above  mass, 
summit  above  summit,  into  the  very  heavens  from  the 
water's  edge  where  there  was  a  fringe  of  green.  Surely 
the  vision  must  be  real ;  yet  how  could  tiny  man  out  of 
earth  and  upon  earth  rear  in  such  enchantment  of  line 
and  color  those  enormous  masses,  those  peak-like  pierc 
ings  of  the  sky? 

"Is  that — it?"  she  asked  in  an  awed  undertone. 

Susan  nodded.  She,  too,  was  gazing  spellbound. 
Her  beloved  City  of  the  Sun. 

"But  it  is  beautiful — beautiful  beyond  belief.  And  I 
have  always  heard  that  New  York  was  ugly." 

"It  is  beautiful — and  ugly — both  beyond  belief !"  re 
plied  Susan. 

"No  wonder  you  love  it !" 

"Yes — I  love  it.  I  have  loved  it  from  the  first  mo 
ment  I  saw  it.  I've  never  stopped  loving  it — not 

even "  She  did  not  finish  her  sentence  but  gazed 

dreamily  at  the  city  appearing  and  disappearing  in  its 
veils  of  thin,  luminous  mist.  Her  thoughts  traveled 
32  477 


SUSAN  LENOX 


again  the  journey  of  her  life  in  New  York.  When  she 
spoke  again,  it  was  to  say: 

"Yes — when  I  first  saw  it — that  spring  evening — I 
called  it  my  City  of  the  Stars,  then,  for  I  didn't  know 
that  it  belonged  to  the  sun — Yes,  that  spring  evening 
I  was  happier  than  I  ever  had  been — or  ever  shall  be 
again." 

"But  you  will  be  happy  again,  dear,"  said  Clelie, 
tenderly  pressing  her  arm. 

A  faint  sad  smile — sad  but  still  a  smile — made 
Susan's  beautiful  face  lovely.  "Yes,  I  shall  be  happy — 
not  in  those  ways — but  happy,  for  I  shall  be  busy.  .  .  . 
No,  I  don't  take  the  tragic  view  of  life — not  at  all. 
And  as  I've  known  misery,  I  don't  try  to  hold  to 
it." 

"Leave  that,"  said  Clelie,  "to  those  who  have  known 
only  the  comfortable  make-believe  miseries  that  rustle 
in  crepe  and  shed  tears — whenever  there's  anyone  by  to 
see." 

"Like  the  beggars  who  begin  to  whine  and  exhibit 
their  aggravated  sores  as  soon  as  a  possible  giver 
comes  into  view,"  said  Susan.  "I've  learned  to  accept 
what  comes,  and  to  try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  whatever 
it  is.  ...  I  say  I've  learned.  But  have  I?  Does  one 
ever  change?  I  guess  I  was  born  that  sort  of  philos 
opher." 

She  recalled  how  she  put  the  Warhams  out  of  her 
life  as  soon  as  she  discovered  what  they  really  meant 
to  her  and  she  to  them — how  she  had  put  Jeb  Ferguson 
out  of  her  life — how  she  had  conquered  the  grief  and 
desolation  of  the  loss  of  Burlingham — how  she  had 
survived  Etta's  going  away  without  her — the  inner 
meaning  of  her  episodes  with  Rod — with  Freddie 
Palmer 

478 


SUSAN   LENOX 


And  now  this  last  supreme  test — with  her  soul  rising 
up  and  gathering  itself  together  and  lifting  its  head  in 
strength 

"Yes,  I  was  born  to  make  the  best  of  things,"  she  re 
peated. 

"Then  you  were  born  lucky,"  sighed  Clelie,  who  was 
of  those  who  must  lean  if  they  would  not  fall  and  lie 
where  they  fell. 

Susan  gave  a  curious  little  laugh — with  no  mirth, 
with  a  great  deal  of  mockery.  "Do  you  know,  I  never 
thought  so  before,  but  I  believe  you're  right,"  said  she. 
Again  she  laughed  in  that  queer  way.  "If  you  knew 
my  life  you'd  think  I  was  joking.  But  I'm  not.  The 
fact  that  I've  survived  and  am  what  I  am  proves  I  was 
born  lucky."  Her  tone  changed,  her  expression  be 
came  unreadable.  "If  it's  lucky  to  be  born  able  to  live. 
And  if  that  isn't  luck,  what  is?" 

She  thought  how  Brent  said  she  was  born  lucky  be 
cause  she  had  the  talent  that  enables  one  to  rise  above 
the  sordidness  of  that  capitalism  he  so  often  denounced 
— the  sordidness  of  the  lot  of  its  slaves,  the  sordidness 
of  the  lot  of  its  masters.  Brent!  If  it  were  he  leaning 
beside  her — if  he  and  she  were  coming  up  the  bay 
toward  the  City  of  the  Sun! 

A  billow  of  heartsick  desolation  surged  over  her. 
Alone — always  alone.  And  still  alone.  And  always  to 
be  alone. 

Garvey  came  aboard  when  the  gangway  was  run  out. 
He  was  in  black  wherever  black  could  be  displayed. 
But  the  grief  shadowing  his  large,  simple  countenance 
had  the  stamp  of  the  genuine.  And  it  was  genuine,  of 
the  most  approved  enervating  kind.  He  had  done 
nothing  but  grieve  since  his  master's  death — had  left 
unattended  all  the  matters  the  man  he  loved  and 

479 


SUSAN  LENOX 


grieved  for  would  have  wished  put  in  order.  Is  it  out 
of  charity  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature  and  that 
we  may  think  as  well  as  possible  of  it — is  that  why  we 
admire  and  praise  most  enthusiastically  the  kind  of 
love  and  the  kind  of  friendship  and  the  kind  of  grief 
that  manifest  themselves  in  obstreperous  feeling  and 
wordiness,  with  no  strength  left  for  any  attempt  to  do? 
As  Garvey  greeted  them  the  tears  filled  Clelie's  eyes 
and  she  turned  away.  But  Susan  gazed  at  him  stead 
ily;  in  her  eyes  there  were  no  tears,  but  a  look  that 
made  Garvey  choke  back  sobs  and  bend  his  head  to  hide 
his  expression.  What  he  saw — or  felt — behind  her 
calmness  filled  him  with  awe,  with  a  kind  of  terror.  But 
he  did  not  recognize  what  he  saw  as  grief;  it  did  not 
resemble  any  grief  he  had  felt  or  had  heard  about. 

"He  made  a  will  just  before  he  died,"  he  said  to 
Susan.  "He  left  everything  to  you." 

Then  she  had  not  been  mistaken.  He  had  loved  her, 
even  as  she  loved  him.  She  turned  and  walked  quickly 
from  them.  She  hastened  into  her  cabin,  closed  the 
door  and  flung  herself  across  the  bed.  And  for  the 
first  time  she  gave  way.  In  that  storm  her  soul  was  like 
a  little  land  bird  in  the  clutch  of  a  sea  hurricane.  She 
did  not  understand  herself.  She  still  had  no  sense  that 
he  was  dead;  yet  had  his  dead  body  been  lying  there 
in  her  arms  she  could  not  have  been  more  shaken  by 
paroxysms  of  grief,  without  tears  or  sobs — grief  that 
vents  itself  in  shrieks  and  peals  of  horrible  laughter- 
like  screams — she  smothered  them  in  the  pillows  in 
which  she  buried  her  face.  Clelie  came,  opened  the 
door,  glanced  in,  closed  it.  An  hour  passed — an  hour 
and  a  half.  Then  Susan  appeared  on  deck — amber- 
white  pallor,  calm,  beautiful,  the  fashionable  woman 
in  traveling  dress. 

480 


SUSAN   LENOX 


"I  never  before  saw  you  with  your  lips  not  rouged !" 
exclaimed  Clelie. 

"You  will  never  see  them  rouged  again,"  said  Susan. 

"But  it  makes  you  look  older." 

"Not  so  old  as  I  am,"  replied  she. 

And  she  busied  herself  about  the  details  of  the  land 
ing  and  the  customs,  waving  aside  Garvey  and  his  eager 
urgings  that  she  sit  quietly  and  leave  everything  to  him. 
In  the  carriage,  on  the  way  to  the  hotel,  she  roused 
herself  from  her  apparently  tranquil  reverie  and  broke 
the  strained  silence  by  saying: 

"How  much  shall  I  have?" 

The  question  was  merely  the  protruding  end  of  a 
train  of  thought  years  long  and  pursued  all  that  time 
with  scarcely  an  interruption.  It  seemed  abrupt;  to 
Garvey  it  sounded  brutal.  Off  his  guard,  he  showed  in 
flooding  color  and  staring  eye  how  profoundly  it 
shocked  him.  Susan  saw,  but  she  did  not  explain; 
she  was  not  keeping  accounts  in  emotion  with  the 
world.  She  waited  patiently.  After  a  long  pause  he 
said  in  a  tone  that  contained  as  much  of  rebuke  as  so 
mild  a  dependent  dared  express: 

"He  left  about  thirty  thousand  a  year,  Miss  Lenox." 

The  exultant  light  that  leaped  to  Susan's  eye  horri 
fied  him.  It  even  disturbed  Clelie,  though  she  better 
understood  Susan's  nature  and  was  not  nearly  so  rev 
erent  as  Garvey  of  the  hypocrisies  of  conventionality. 
But  Susan  had  long  since  lost  the  last  trace  of  awe  of 
the  opinion  of  others.  She  was  not  seeking  to  convey 
an  impression  of  grief.  Grief  was  too  real  to  her.  She 
would  as  soon  have  burst  out  with  voluble  confession  of 
the  secret  of  her  love  for  Brent.  She  saw  what  Garvey 
was  thinking;  but  she  was  not  concerned.  She  con 
tinued  to  be  herself — natural  and  simple.  And  there 

481 


SUSAN  LENOX 


was  no  reason  why  she  should  conceal  as  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of  the  fact  that  Brent  had  accomplished  the 
purpose  he  intended,  had  filled  her  with  honest  exulta 
tion — not  with  delight  merely,  not  with  triumph,  but 
with  that  stronger  and  deeper  joy  which  the  unhoped 
for  pardon  brings  to  the  condemned  man. 

She  must  live  on.  The  thought  of  suicide,  of  any 
form  of  giving  up — the  thought  that  instantly  pos 
sesses  the  weak  and  the  diseased — could  not  find  lodg 
ment  in  that  young,  healthy  body  and  mind  of  hers. 
She  must  live  on ;  and  suddenly  she  discovered  that  she 
could  live  free!  Not  after  years  of  doubtful  struggles, 
of  reverses,  of  success  so  hardly  won  that  she  was  left 
exhausted.  But  now — at  once — free!  The  heavy 
shackles  had  been  stricken  off  at  a  blow.  She  was 
free — forever  free!  Free,  forever  free,  from  the 
wolves  of  poverty  and  shame,  of  want  and  rags  and 
filth,  the  wolves  that  had  been  pursuing  her  with  swift, 
hideous  padded  stride,  the  wolves  that  more  than  once 
had  dragged  her  down  and  torn  and  trampled  her,  and 
lapped  her  blood.  Free  to  enter  of  her  own  right  the 
world  worth  living  in,  the  world  from  which  all  but  a 
few  are  shut  out,  the  world  which  only  a  few  of  those 
privileged  to  enter  know  how  to  enjoy.  Free  to  live 
the  life  worth  while — the  life  of  leisure  to  work,  instead 
of  slaving  to  make  leisure  and  luxury  and  comfort  for 
others.  Free  to  achieve  something  beside  food,  cloth 
ing,  and  shelter.  Free  to  live  as  she  pleased,  instead 
of  for  the  pleasure  of  a  master  or  masters.  Free — 
free — free !  The  ecstasy  of  it  surged  up  in  her,  for  the 
moment  possessing  her  and  submerging  even  thought 
of  how  she  had  been  freed. 

She  who  had  never  acquired  the  habit  of  hypocrisy 
frankly  exulted  in  countenance  exultant  beyond  laugh- 

482 


SUSAN  LENOX 


ter.  She  could  conceal  her  feelings,  could  refrain  from 
expressing.  But  if  she  expressed  at  all,  it  must  be  her 
true  self — what  she  honestly  felt.  Garvey  hung  his 
head  in  shame.  He  would  not  have  believed  Susan  could 
be  so  unfeeling.  He  would  not  let  his  eyes  see  the  pain 
ful  sight.  He  would  try  to  forget,  would  deny  to  him 
self  that  he  had  seen.  For  to  his  shallow,  conventional 
nature  Susan's  expression  could  only  mean  delight  in 
wealth,  in  the  opportunity  that  now  offered  to  idle  and 
to  luxuriate  in  the  dead  man's  money,  to  realize  the 
crude  dreamings  of  those  lesser  minds  whose  initial 
impulses  toward  growth  have  been  stifled  by  the  rou 
tine  our  social  system  imposes  upon  all  but  the  few  with 
the  strength  to  persist  individual. 

Free!  She  tried  to  summon  the  haunting  vision  of 
the  old  women  with  the  tin  cups  of  whisky  reeling  and 
staggering  in  time  to  the  hunchback's  playing.  She 
could  remember  every  detail,  but  these  memories  would 
not  assemble  even  into  a  vivid  picture — and  the  picture 
would  have  been  far  enough  from  the  horror  of  actu 
ality  in  the  vision  she  formerly  could  not  banish.  As  a 
menace,  as  a  prophecy,  the  old  women  and  the  hunch 
back  and  the  strumming  piano  had  gone  forever.  Free 
— secure,  independent — free ! 

After  a  long  silence  Garvey  ventured  stammeringly : 

"He  said  to  me — he  asked  me  to  request — he  didn't 
make  it  a  condition — just  a  wish — a  hope,  Miss 
Lenox — that  if  you  could,  and  felt  it  strongly 
enough " 

"Wished  what?"  said  Susan,  with  a  sharp  impatience 
that  showed  how  her  nerves  were  unstrung. 

"That  you'd  go  on — go  on  with  the  plays — with  the 
acting." 

The  violet  eyes  expressed  wonder.  "Go  on?"  she 
483 


SUSAN   LENOX 


inquired,  "Go  on?"  Then  in  a  tone  that  made  Clelie 
sob  and  Garvey's  eyes  fill  she  said: 

"What  else  is  there  to  live  for,  now?" 

"I'm — I'm  glad  for  his  sake,"  stammered  Garvey. 

He  was  disconcerted  by  her  smile.  She  made  no 
other  answer — aloud.  For  his  sake!  For  her  own 
sake,  rather.  What  other  life  had  she  but  the  life  he 
had  given  her?  "And  he  knew  I  would,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "He  said  that  merely  to  let  me  know  he  left 
me  entirely  free.  How  like  him,  to  do  that !" 

At  the  hotel  she  shut  herself  in;  she  saw  no  one,  not 
even  Clelie,  for  nearly  a  week.  Then — she  went  to  work 
— and  worked  like  a  reincarnation  of  Brent. 

She  inquired  for  Sperry,  found  that  he  and  Rod  had 
separated  as  they  no  longer  needed  each  other;  she 
went  into  a  sort  of  partnership  with  Sperry  for  the 
production  of  Brent's  plays — he,  an  excellent  coach 
as  well  as  stage  director,  helping  her  to  finish  her 
formal  education  for  the  stage.  She  played  with  suc 
cess  half  a  dozen  of  the  already  produced  Brent  plays. 
At  the  beginning  of  her  second  season  she  appeared 
in  what  has  become  her  most  famous  part — Roxy  in 
Brent's  last  play,  "The  Scandal."  With  the  opening 
night  her  career  of  triumph  began.  Even  the  critics — 
therefore,  not  unnaturally,  suspicious  of  an  actress 
who  was  so  beautiful,  so  beautifully  dressed,  so  well 
supported,  and  so  well  outfitted  with  actor-proof  plays 
— even  the  critics  conceded  her  ability.  She  was  worthy 
of  the  great  character  Brent  had  created — the  way 
ward,  many-sided,  ever  gay  Roxy  Grandon. 

When,  at  the  first  night  of  "The  Scandal,"  the 
audience  lingered,  cheering  Brent's  picture  thrown  upon 
a  drop,  cheering  Susan,  calling  her  out  again  and 

484 


SUSAN  LENOX 


again,  refusing  to  leave  the  theater  until  it  was  an 
nounced  that  she  could  answer  no  more  calls,  as  she 
had  gone  home — when  she  was  thus  finally  and  firmly 
established  in  her  own  right — she  said  to  Sperry: 

"Will  you  see  to  it  that  every  sketch  of  me  that  ap 
pears  tomorrow  says  that  I  am  the  natural  daughter 
of  Lorella  Lenox?" 

Sperry's  Punch-like  face  reddened. 

"I've  been  ashamed  of  that  fact,"  she  went  on.  "It 
has  made  me  ashamed  to  be  alive — in  the  bottom  of 
my  heart." 

"Absurd,"  said  Sperry. 

"Exactly,"  replied  Susan.  "Absurd.  Even  stronger 
than  my  shame  about  it  has  been  my  shame  that  I 
could  be  so  small  as  to  feel  ashamed  of  it.  Now — 

tonight "  she  was  still  in  her  dressing-room.  As 

she  paused  they  heard  the  faint  faraway  thunders  of 
the  applause  of  the  lingering  audience — "Listen!"  she 
cried.  "I  am  ashamed  no  longer.  Sperry,  Ich  bin  ein 
Ich!" 

"I  should  say,"  laughed  he.  "All  you  have  to  say 
is  'Susan  Lenox'  and  you  answer  all  questions." 

"At  last  I'm  proud  of  it,"  she  went  on.  "I've  justi 
fied  myself.  I've  justified  my  mother.  I  am  proud  of 
her,  and  she  would  be  proud  of  me.  So — see  that  it's 
done,  Sperry." 

"Sure,"  said  he.     "You're  right." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  laughed,  patted 
him  on  the  shoulder,  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  in 
friendly,  sisterly  fashion. 

He  had  just  gone  when  a  card  was  brought  to  her — 
"Dr.  Robert  Stevens"— with  "Sutherland,  Indiana," 
penciled  underneath.  Instantly  she  remembered,  and 
had  him  brought  to  her — the  man  who  had  rescued  her 

485 


SUSAN  LENOX 


from  death  at  her  birth.  He  proved  to  be  a  quiet, 
elderly  gentleman,  subdued  and  aged  beyond  his  fifty- 
five  years  by  the  monotonous  life  of  the  drowsy  old 
town.  He  approached  with  a  manner  of  embarrassed 
respect  and  deference,  stammering  old-fashioned  com 
pliments.  But  Susan  was  the  simple,  unaffected  girl 
again,  so  natural  that  he  soon  felt  as  much  at  ease  as 
with  one  of  his  patients  in  Sutherland. 

She  took  him  away  in  her  car  to  her  apartment  for 
supper  with  her  and  Clelie,  who  was  in  the  company, 
and  Sperry.  She  kept  him  hour  after  hour,  question 
ing  him  about  everyone  and  everything  in  the  old  town, 
drawing  him  out,  insisting  upon  more  and  more  details. 
The  morning  papers  were  brought  and  they  read  the 
accounts  of  play  and  author  and  players.  For  once 
there  was  not  a  dissent;  all  the  critics  agreed  that  it 
was  a  great  performance  of  a  great  play.  And  Susan 
made  Sperry  read  aloud  the  finest  and  the  longest  of 
the  accounts  of  Brent  himself — his  life,  his  death,  his 
work,  his  lasting  fame  now  peculiarly  assured  because 
in  Susan  Lenox  there  had  been  found  a  competent  inter 
preter  of  his  genius. 

After  the  reading  there  fell  silence.  Susan,  her  pallid 
face  and  her  luminous,  inquiring  violet  eyes  inscrutable, 
sat  gazing  into  vacancy.  At  last  Doctor  Stevens 
moved  uneasily  and  rose  to  go.  Susan  roused  herself, 
accompanied  him  to  the  adjoining  room.  Said  the  old 
doctor: 

"I've  told  you  about  everybody.  But  you've  told 
me  nothing  about  the  most  interesting  Sutherlander  of 
all — yourself." 

Susan  looked  at  him.  And  he  saw  the  wound  hidden 
from  all  the  world — the  wound  she  hid  from  herself  as 
much  of  the  time  as  she  could.  He,  the  doctor,  the 

486 


SUSAN   LENOX 


professional  confessor,  had  seen  such  wounds  often;  in 
all  the  world  there  is  hardly  a  heart  without  one.  He 
said : 

"Since  sorrow  is  the  common  lot,  I  wonder  that  men 
can  be  so  selfish  or  so  unthinking  as  not  to  help  each 
other  in  every  way  to  its  consolations.  Poor  creatures 
that  we  are — wandering  in  the  dark,  fighting  desper 
ately,  not  knowing  friend  from  foe!" 

"But  I  am  glad  that  you  saved  me,"  said  she. 

"You  have  the  consolations — success — fame — honor." 

"There  is  no  consolation,"  replied  she  in  her  grave 
sweet  way.  "I  had  the  best.  I — lost  him.  I  shall 
spend  my  life  in  flying  from  myself." 

After  a  pause  she  went  on :  "I  shall  never  speak  to 
anyone  as  I  have  spoken  to  you.  You  will  understand 
all.  I  had  the  best — the  man  who  could  have  given  me 
all  a  woman  seeks  from  a  man — love,  companionship, 
sympathy,  the  shelter  of  strong  arms.  I  had  that.  I 
have  lost  it.  So " 

A  long  pause.     Then  she  added: 

"Usually  life  is  almost  tasteless  to  me.  Again — for 
an  hour  or  two  it  is  a  little  less  so — until  I  remember 
what  I  have  lost.  Then — the  taste  is  very  bitter — very 
bitter." 

And  she  turned  away. 

She  is  a  famous  actress,  reputed  great.  Some  day 
she  will  be  indeed  great — when  she  has  the  stage  ex 
perience  and  the  years.  Except  for  Clelie,  she  is  alone. 
Not  that  there  have  been  no  friendships  in  her  life. 
There  have  even  been  passions.  With  men  and  women 
of  her  vigor  and  vitality,  passion  is  inevitable.  But 
those  she  admits  find  that  she  has  little  to  give,  and 
they  go  away,  she  making  no  effort  to  detain  them; 

487 


SUSAN  LENOX 


or  she  finds  that  she  has  nothing  to  give,  and  sends 
them  away  as  gently  as  may  be.  She  has  the  reputa 
tion  of  caring  for  nothing  but  her  art — and  for  the 
great  establishment  for  orphans  up  the  Hudson,  into 
which  about  all  her  earnings  go.  The  establishment  is 
named  for  Brent  and  is  dedicated  to  her  mother.  Is 
she  happy?  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  she  knows. 
Probably  she  is — as  long  as  she  can  avoid  pausing  to 
think  whether  she  is  or  not.  What  better  happiness 
can  intelligent  mortal  have,  or  hope  for?  Certainly 
she  is  triumphant,  is  lifted  high  above  the  storms  that 
tortured  her  girlhood  and  early  youth,  the  sordid  woes 
that  make  life  an  unrelieved  tragedy  of  calamity  threat 
ened  and  calamity  realized  for  the  masses  of  mankind. 
The  last  time  I  saw  her 

It  was  a  few  evenings  ago,  and  she  was  crossing  the 
sidewalk  before  her  house  toward  the  big  limousine  that 
was  to  take  her  to  the  theater.  She  is  still  young ;  she 
looked  even  younger  than  she  is.  Her  dress  had  the 
same  exquisite  quality  that  made  her  the  talk  of  Paris 
in  the  days  of  her  sojourn  there.  But  it  is  not  her 
dress  that  most  interests  me,  nor  the  luxury  and  per 
fection  of  all  her  surroundings.  It  is  not  even  her 
beauty — that  is,  the  whole  of  her  beauty. 

Everything  and  every  being  that  is  individual  in 
appearance  has  some  one  quality,  trait,  characteristic, 
which  stands  out  above  all  the  rest  to  make  a  climax 
of  interest  and  charm.  With  the  rose  it  is  its  perfume ; 
with  the  bird,  perhaps  the  scarlet  or  snowy  feathers 
upon  its  breast.  Among  human  beings  who  have  the 
rare  divine  dower  of  clear  individuality  the  crown  and 
cap  of  distinction  differs.  In  her — for  me,  at  least — 
the  consummate  fascination  is  not  in  her  eyes,  though 
I  am  moved  by  the  soft  glory  of  their  light,  nor  in  the 

488 


SUSAN  LENOX 


lovely  oval  contour  of  her  sweet,  healthily  pallid  face. 
No,  it  is  in  her  mouth — sensitive,  strong  yet  gentle, 
suggestive  of  all  the  passion  and  suffering  and  striving 
that  have  built  up  her  life.  Her  mouth — the  curve  of 
it — I  think  it  is,  that  sends  from  time  to  time  the  mys 
terious  thrill  through  her  audiences.  And  I  imagine 
those  who  know  her  best  look  always  first  at  those 
strangely  pale  lips,  curved  in  a  way  that  suggests 
bitterness  melting  into  sympathy,  sadness  changing  into 
mirth — a  way  that  seems  to  say:  "I  have  suffered — 
but,  see!  I  have  stood  fast!" 

Can  a  life  teach  any  deeper  lesson,  give  any  higher 
inspiration? 

As  I  was  saying,  the  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was 
about  to  enter  her  automobile.  I  halted  and  watched 
the  graceful  movements  with  which  she  took  her  seat 
and  gathered  the  robes  about  her.  And  then  I  noted 
her  profile,  by  the  light  of  the  big  lamps  guarding  her 
door.  You  know  that  profile?  You  have  seen  its  same 
expression  in  every  profile  of  successful  man  or  woman 
who  ever  lived.  Yes,  she  may  be  happy — doubtless  is 
more  happy  than  unhappy.  But — I  do  not  envy  her — 
or  any  other  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men  who  is 
blessed — and  cursed — with  imagination. 

And  Freddie — and  Rod — and  Etta — and  the  people 
of  Sutherland — and  all  the  rest  who  passed  through 
her  life  and  out?  What  does  it  matter?  Some  went 
up,  some  down — not  without  reason,  but,  alas !  not  for 
reason  of  desert.  For  the  judgments  of  fate  are,  for 
the  most  part,  not  unlike  blows  from  a  lunatic  striking 
out  in  the  dark;  if  they  land  where  they  should,  it  is 
rarely  and  by  sheer  chance.  Ruth's  parents  are  dead ; 
she  is  married  to  Sam  Wright.  He  lost  his  father's 
money  in  wheat  speculation  in  Chicago — in  one  of  the 

489 


SUSAN  LENOX 


most  successful  of  the  plutocracy's  constantly  recur 
ring  raids  upon  the  hoardings  of  the  middle  class. 
They  live  in  a  little  house  in  one  of  the  back  streets  of 
Sutherland  and  he  is  head  clerk  in  Arthur  Sinclair's 
store — a  position  he  owes  to  the  fact  that  Sinclair  is 
his  rich  brother-in-law.  Ruth  has  children  and  she  is 
happier  in  them  than  she  realizes  or  than  her  discon 
tented  face  and  voice  suggest.  Etta  is  fat  and  con 
tented,  the  mother  of  many,  and  fond  of  her  fat,  fussy 
August,  the  rich  brewer.  John  Redmond — a  congress 
man,  a  possession  of  the  Beef  Trust,  I  believe — but  not 
so  highly  prized  a  possession  as  was  his  abler  father. 

Freddie?  I  saw  him  a  year  ago  at  the  races  at 
Auteuil.  He  is  huge  and  loose  and  coarse,  is  in  the 
way  soon  to  die  of  Bright's  disease,  I  suspect.  There 
was  a  woman  with  him — very  pretty,  very  chic.  I  saw 
no  other  woman  similarly  placed  whose  eyes  held  so 
assiduously,  and  without  ever  a  wandering  flutter,  to  the 
face  of  the  man  who  was  paying.  But  Freddie  never 
noticed  her.  He  chewed  savagely  at  his  cigar,  looking 
about  the  while  for  things  to  grumble  at  or  to  curse. 
Rod  ?  He  is  still  writing  indifferent  plays  with  varying 
success.  He  long  since  wearied  of  Constance  Franck- 
lyn,  but  she  clings  to  him  and,  as  she  is  a  steady  money 
maker,  he  tolerates  her. 

Brent?  He  is  statelily  ensconced  up  at  Woodlawn. 
Susan  has  never  been  to  his  grave — there.  His  grave 
in  her  heart — she  avoids  that  too,  when  she  can.  But 
there  are  times — there  always  will  be  times 

If  you  doubt  it,  look  at  her  profile. 

Yes,  she  has  learned  to  live.  But — she  has  paid  the 
price. 

(5) 

,  v 


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